


To Home Afar

by CaptainSlow



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Because I hate sad endings, I'm not being AT ALL original here but what the hell, M/M, POV Multiple, Slow Burn, a little angst a little romance a little smut, and they lived bloody happily ever after because I said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 122,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29312406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSlow/pseuds/CaptainSlow
Summary: All the treasures of earth cannot bring back one lost moment.French Proverb (at least Google said it is French, if not - shame on you, Google)***A collection of moments they decidedly did NOT lose, hence the 'nobody dies' tag.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies)
Comments: 145
Kudos: 518





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Like it is stated in the tags, the idea is so utterly not original it hurts my eyes. 
> 
> The problem is, I cannot bear sad endings; I mean, life is too bloody full of them to read about those in books or see them in films, so I find that moment at the end of Bilbo's journey when he opens the door of his normally neat home to see it so devastatingly empty with a few things scattered all over the floor, absolutely, excruciatingly, horrendously bitter. Breaks my stupid little heart every single time. That's why here's this - an initially little scribble which was planned as a one-shot and which somehow evolved into this monster, my dubious attempt to make those two fall properly in love before it's too late. This is not quite the retelling of the Hobbit, god forbid, but rather a few moments in between the main events, followed by a little fantasy on 'what might have been if...'  
> Like I said, nothing original, written for the sake of butterflies in the stomach, a little angst, a little smut, and 'they lived happily ever after' trope at its worst XD I'm sure there are tons of such works out there, most of which I haven't even had a chance to come across let alone read solely due to their great number, but if anyone feels like a little (ahem) 120k slow burn, you're welcome XD
> 
> The title is a part of a line from Bilbo's (Tolkien's) poem from the last chapter of The Hobbit.
> 
> I might have taken some liberties with the canon here and there (besides the ending, that is), but since Master Peter Jackson was allowed to twist it this way and that, I thought so was I. 
> 
> The characters belong to the incomparable J. R. R. Tolkien, I'm only here trifling with them a little.

**~** **Bilbo ~**

How much can a few seconds change in a battle like this? What about half a minute? A whole minute?

Bilbo doesn't know – he has never been on a battlefield before, and all the previous plights he has been involved in during this journey seem nothing but children's squabbles in comparison with the massacre happening all around him right now. Distractedly, he wonders how come he has ended up in one in the first place, a simple Hobbit from the Shire, a green and peaceful land half a world away from here. It all feels utterly nonsensical, and the blurred shapes and floating shadows moving around him as if in slow motion, the noise dulled down to a distant muted din – reality somehow being distorted and warped by the ring sitting snug and warm around his finger – do not aid in making any of it more believable.

He suspects, however, that even a single fleeting heartbeat must be such a long time in the context and the settings of the fray of these proportions that a whole lifetime can pass and end in that stretch of time, and if Bilbo comes too late, surely, his own lifetime will be utterly wasted. He cannot let them die out there on that wretched hill, surrounded by orcs and wargs and with no friends to come to their rescue or at least to stand shoulder to shoulder with and face the inevitable together. He cannot let Thorin die out there, no matter what has been going on with his mind. Thorin must live, he is the King, he has his coveted Mountain reclaimed, he deserves to live and rule and finally be at peace at the home which he was deprived of for so long. Thorin must live because Bilbo cannot see any life for himself if he lets him die. Thorin must live because Bilbo loves him, and it doesn't matter if the Dwarf does not or will despise him for the rest of his life for his betrayal. None of that matters except for the fact that Thorin must live.

Bilbo is certain he has never before run as fast as this, not even for his own life, but it seems that running for Thorin's and his nephews' lives gives him his second wind. The only thing he hopes is that his very best won't be too little too late. He wants to tell himself that it won't, that it _can't_ , that luck cannot desert him now of all times after it has stayed with him through all the previous perils he has been caught in, but some nasty voice deep inside of him asks why he should be so certain, why cannot good fortune turn away from all of them now when it is most direly needed? There is no answering those questions, so Bilbo speeds up the rocky slope of the Ravenhill, his every single muscle burning, his heartbeat pounding in his chest and reverberating through his temples, his lungs hurting so much he feels like he might throw them up any moment now, the coppery taste of blood in his mouth making him even more nauseous. But he must hurry, must outrun the time itself to steal the precious seconds which may mean lifetimes, and so Bilbo runs.

And – oh, thank… thank _someone_ – despite his fears, when he finally reaches the top of the old lookout post, he finds all four of his friends right there, together and, more importantly, alive. The relief is so immense that for one long moment it seems he will simply pass out from the sheer intensity of it.

"Thorin!" Bilbo yells at the top of his poor burning lungs, not wanting to waste a single second, and slips the ring off his finger as he sprints over the icy ground towards where the Dwarves are standing.

Before either of them turns to look at him, for that one breathless heartbeat it takes them to whirl around, Bilbo is so terrified of what he will see in Thorin's eyes that he almost wishes the King wouldn't face him at all. Will it be the same delirious hatred that filled his gaze the last time Bilbo looked at him, with the upper part of his body hanging over the drop below the battlements, his feet dangling in the air fruitlessly searching for some foothold, Thorin's fingers in a vice grip around his throat, squeezing his windpipe relentlessly. Will it be all-encompassing bloodlust with which he must have plunged into the battle? Will it be the hurt look of betrayal? Anger? Resentment? Or will it be the Thorin he has come to know, to respect and to love, the hope in Bilbo's heart so fickle and brittle it feels like it could be snuffed out by as small a thing as one single glance.

The four Dwarves spin around towards his voice simultaneously, with shock and surprise written clearly all over their faces, but it is Thorin's eyes that have Bilbo's full attention because apart from the shock and surprise, there is something else in them, the look of awareness Bilbo hasn't seen there for days on end, something he has lost almost all hope of seeing ever again. Mixed with it, there is a glimpse of all that had been before they finally unlocked the secret door into the Mountain, of all the words they had purposefully left unsaid and all the feelings neither of them had been able to contain no matter if they spoke of them or not.

All Bilbo really wishes to do as their eyes meet is wrap Thorin into his arms and keep him there, in safety and love and never let go no matter what happens next. He knows, though, that his arms won't be able to guarantee any kind of safety out here, and that his love might not be enough to compensate for the pain he has inflicted, so he quenches the irate desire before it manages to get a hold of him – this is not the time or place for emotion. He's got Dwarves to save, after all, and the precious time is slipping through his fingers like fine sand on the banks of the Brandywine river.

"Bilbo!" all four exclaim as one but he only has ears for Thorin's voice, that rumble coming from deep inside of his chest, and he has never before been gladder to hear it.

The King starts towards him with such determination that for a fraction of a second Bilbo thinks Thorin is going to grab him into his arms, so he screeches to a halt a couple of feet away, gulping for breath and raising up his hand to stall him off.

"What are you doing here?"

"How did you get here?"

"What--"

"You have to leave here," Bilbo gasps. "Now. Azog has another army attacking from the north. This watchtower will be completely surrounded, with no way out."

As he watches the Dwarves exchange glances, Dwalin obviously not fancying fleeing from the fight as he finds it below himself and his pride, Fíli and Kíli almost itching for a combat, Bilbo's heart sinks because these stubborn fools will obviously stay here to face their stupid heroic deaths, but it is Thorin's voice which gives him hope as he declares that they will leave the fight for another day. Bilbo doesn't know what managed to bash common sense into that thick head of his, but he is immensely grateful for it. The others nod, even if a bit reluctantly, and Bilbo allows himself a small sigh of relief.

It proves to be a bit premature as, just when they are about to leave the top landing, there is suddenly a low rumbling of drums coming from what feels like inside the very rock itself.

 _No_ , Bilbo thinks with dismay. _No, no, no, this cannot be it, it cannot be too late._ And yet it seems to be precisely the case – there is a look exchanged between Thorin and Dwalin, and that look says everything Bilbo _doesn't_ want to know. It is indeed too late for anything but a fight.

Then Thorin turns to him, their eyes meeting, Thorin's impossibly, translucently blue and filled with regret so profound Bilbo can almost taste the bitterness of it, and his own, certainly utterly desperate and horrified, for himself, yes, but even more so for the Dwarf he has come to love so dearly.

"You need to leave, Bilbo," Thorin says, his voice steady and awfully calm in the almost surreal stillness hanging round them. "I don't know how you managed to get here unnoticed, but you need to do that again to get out. _Now_."

To that, Bilbo only has a smile, one which feels completely unnatural on his lips and yet it is a genuine smile all the same, perhaps the most genuine he has ever given anyone in his entire life.

"You'll have to throw me off this damned cliff to make me leave now, Thorin," he says, his own voice surprisingly steady, too, even though he feels anything but.

For a moment, Thorin looks as if he is about to argue. Then he closes his mouth, apparently thinking better of it. After all, there is no time left for arguing and, besides, they both know that they will most certainly face their death today, here or elsewhere. It would only be more reasonable to face it together.

And then, out of nowhere, bats and goblins come and nightmarish mayhem ensues.

**~ Thorin ~**

He is not thinking of anyone or anything as he glares into those baleful pale blue eyes of Azog, not about the battle raging below on the very threshold of his home, not about the Mountain which they need to protect, not about his family, his nephews fighting somewhere or perhaps already dead, nor about his sister left all alone so far away in the Blue Mountains, nor about Bilbo who has become closer to him than anyone has ever been; there is nothing at all on Thorin's mind except the fight-induced rush, thrill pumping though his veins, and hatred so deep it seems to be the only thing making his heart beat in his chest at this moment. He knows that the Pale Orc is physically stronger than him, and being trapped the way he is, with that filthy monster straddling his middle and with both of his hands occupied as he does his best to resist the push of the crooked blade Azog is trying to skewer him with, he also knows that he is left pretty much helpless. Unless he is extremely lucky and, for some unfathomable reason, fate decides to be merciful to him and somehow let him live on, he will be dead in the matter of the following seconds, a minute at most, because the strength is leaving his arms and he is all but suffocating under the weight of the monster sitting on his chest. A while longer and his vision will swim and blacken and his arms give in, and then this abominable filth will win. Thorin cannot allow that to happen, not after what Azog did to his family, robbing him of his grandfather, father and brother and many brave and valiant friends. If he is going to die here, after all, he is going to take Azog with him. A plan is shaped in his head within seconds – it would be better to have the orc push that blade through his middle whilst he still has some strength left in him to administer a return blow, even if it is going to be the last he makes in his life, and thus drag the orc with him to the lands of the dead from whence he will never return.

Thorin is about to follow through with his plan and give up on his struggle when there is a piercing scream reaching his ears, a shriek which comes from somewhere behind him. He cannot turn his head to see, pinned to the ice by Azog, but he knows the owner of the voice yelling his name at the top of his lungs all too well. For a moment which cannot last as long as it feels, Thorin's heart skips a beat, and during that one single moment of hope and terror something jumps onto the Pale Orc with the recklessness Thorin has only seen once before, in almost the same situation which seems to have taken place ages ago, in some other life and some other time.

What happens next happens awfully fast, too fast for Thorin to do anything to change the course of events. All he can do is watch helplessly with a growing sense of sickening dismay in his heart.

Bilbo howls a terrified, _'No-no-no!'_ and pounces onto Azog, with that little Elvish blade in his hand – glowing blue so brightly, Thorin thinks detachedly – trying to stick it into any part of the orc's body close enough for a strike. The Hobbit is too small and too light to do much damage, but Azog does falter for a fraction of second from the impact of Bilbo's weight colliding with him and even more so, perhaps, from sheer surprise. His blade shifts and slides sideways against the cutting edge of Orcrist, which is all Thorin needs to push it away from his chest. Before he has time to do anything at all but blink, Bilbo falls off Azog's shoulder and clumsily lands onto the ice, slips, loses his balance, his blade flying out of his grasp, and this is the moment the orc strikes him. He deals him a swinging blow with the stump of the arm which ends up in that bloodied crooked blade, and that blade – for some reason, Thorin can see it awfully clearly, in every single detail, Bilbo's terrified eyes which meet his for a fraction of a second, the blood on the Hobbit's face, the greyish ice around, soaked with blood both scarlet and black, the dark backdrop of the rocks behind him – and then that blade slashes against Bilbo's middle, the blow so powerful that it throws him back against the rocks as if he were nothing but a ragdoll. His scream dies down abruptly when he hits the stone and slides down along the wall in a lifeless crumple of limbs. This is when Thorin hears another scream, a roar of fury, echoing off the dilapidated walls and the sheer cliffs of the Ravenhill.

The brief distraction for Azog that Bilbo was is all Thorin needs to clench his hand on the hilt of his sword and before the Pale Orc has a chance to even look back at him, he buries Orcrist in the whitish flesh of his chest up to its very hilt. He hears Azog let out a howl of pain, surprise and fury, he sees him lifting up his arm to strike him in return, he wrenches Orcrist out of the orc's chest and slashes the arm off at its shoulder before it has a chance to hit him. Black viscous blood bursts from the severed joint in a fountain and lands onto Thorin's face and the ice beneath, and then, before Azog manages to come to his senses, Thorin cuts that hateful head clean off its shoulders. It is only when it falls at his feet a heartbeat later that Thorin realises the furious howl that he hears comes out of his own mouth. It dies down along with the light of life in the orc's eyes, leaving the residual ringing in his ears, the taste of blood in his mouth and his throat raw and aching.

He spends a moment staring down at the severed head and the lifeless body, a black puddle of blood expanding beneath what used to be the leader of the orc army, and then turns his head, feeling dazed and almost drunk, only to see Bilbo still lying in a heap of limbs beside the rock he was thrown against, unmoving. He is feeling nauseous with dread and unsteady on his feet as he dashes towards the Hobbit, the once blazing pain in his foot barely a throbbing echo of itself. He doesn't really want to come closer, terrified of seeing… his mind refuses to let him imagine what he might find once he reaches Bilbo.

The blow Azog dealt him was sure to slice him open from his middle all the way up to his collar bones, and Thorin knows he is by no means ready to see it, to face death in Bilbo's glassy eyes; death of the one he swore to protect and failed so miserably, and it doesn't even matter that it was Azog's blade that slashed at him because Thorin knows _he_ was the one who dragged the Hobbit here, into the wild lands, out of his comfortable home and into the evil and cruel claws of orcs and goblins and dragons and…

There are tears in his eyes, hot, almost scorching, tears of shame and regret and loss and guilt, tears blurring his vision as he drops to his knees beside Bilbo's body, frightened of what he will see, terrified of the blood and gore and the paleness of the face of the one he has so unexpectedly come to love, of the one who has saved his life so many times just for Thorin himself to fail to save him this once. He won't even be able to say goodbye to Bilbo, to ask forgiveness, to tell him that he loves him, the Hobbit will be dead when Thorin reaches him, glazed eyes staring into his unseeingly.

He can _almost_ envisage all of it when he slowly rolls Bilbo onto his back, but that is not what really is. There is no blood gushing from the open wound in his middle because there is no wound. It takes him a long moment to realise as his hand gently covers Bilbo's stomach that underneath the coat and the tunic he is wearing, there is a supple yet protective layer of…

"Mithril…" he mouths, relief washing over him so strong he has to close his eyes for a second because now he does seem to be on the verge of collapsing. "Bilbo…" he murmurs voicelessly, brushing off the strands of mussed hair off the Hobbit's face with hands which tremble almost uncontrollably, leaving smears of blood, black and crimson, on his already bloodied forehead.

There is no more blood anywhere, though, he notices, except that which is on Bilbo's brow and cheeks, and that mainly comes from a gash at his hairline and a few other scratches, hardly the deadliest of wounds. Thorin has no way of knowing whether he is injured internally, however, which he must be – mithril shirts do work against blades and swords, but they are useless at saving one from being thrown against a stone wall with the strength Bilbo was.

"Bilbo?" he calls softly once more as he leans over the Hobbit, his tears – he cannot stop them for the life of him – landing onto his chest and face as he tries to understand if the Hobbit is still breathing. He cannot really say, though, because his vision is clouded and his hands are shaking traitorously. "Please, don't--"

Before he has a chance to finish his dismayed plea, the Hobbit's eyelids twitch and open, first looking past Thorin into the sky above and then focusing on him instead, consciously, which gives Thorin a jolt of hope so raw it feels suffocating.

"The… the Eagles, Thorin…" Bilbo mouths, voice quiet and gasping, and Thorin shakes his head at him, more tears falling onto the Hobbit's face and neck.

"Don't," he whispers hoarsely, leaning in closer. "Lie still, it's all right, you'll be all right, Bilbo," he murmurs his voice shaking. "I'll save you this time, you'll be fine, my--"

\-- _love_ , he wants to say but doesn't have a chance to finish because Bilbo's eyes close again, making Thorin swallow the last word in a wet, strangled sob.

Instead, he leans in to his ear, hands on both sides of Bilbo's face.

"Don't you dare die on me here, Master Burglar, you hear me? Don't you dare, Bilbo, stay with me, stay with me awhile."

Before he does anything else – and it is a good thing perhaps because he _doesn't know_ what to do, to lift him or let Bilbo lie where he is in fear that he might jostle him to his imminent death – he can hear footsteps behind, accompanied by a dull thud of wood on ice. After a couple more heartbeats, there is a whirl of grey in his field of vision, and when Thorin lifts his eyes, there is a gangly wizard crouching next to Bilbo on the other side from him, and Thorin can swear he has never before been this glad to see him.

"Save him," he hears himself hiss, both furiously and wretchedly. "Can you save him?"

Gandalf ignores him altogether, leaving Thorin utterly desperate, as he places one of his large gnarled hands onto Bilbo's brow and the other one on his chest right above his heart, muttering something in the language Thorin does not understand, his eyes closed and a frown deeper than he has ever seen on the wizard's face lodging between his bushy eyebrows. It takes him long, oh Mahal, so long, so _awfully_ long, before Gandalf opens his eyes; so long that Thorin feels like yelling, howling his frustration and fear out into the grey skies above them. When the wizard finally looks at him, though, the air seems to be sucked out of Thorin's lungs once more, no strength left for raging.

"He's alive, Gandalf?" he mouths voicelessly. "He is?"

The wizard nods slowly and Thorin finds his ability to breathe again, albeit erratically, blood pounding in his temples so hard he has to screw up his eyes against it for a moment.

"He is," Gandalf says at last, looking grim and worried. "For now."

"What--"

"I need to get him out of here."

Before Thorin has a chance to say anything, to say he will bring his Hobbit wherever the wizard tells him to – _just please don't take him away from me, not now_ – Gandalf sweeps Bilbo into his arms as if he were weightless, and he seems so, limp and motionless, too small against the wizard's tall and bulky figure.

"I can take him--"

"You stay with your people, Thorin Oakenshield," the wizard snaps back at him furiously, already hurrying away. "There's nothing you can do to help him except make sure you don't get yourself killed; I'm certain Bilbo wouldn't appreciate it all that much!"

Saying no more, he leaves Thorin in a grey whirl of his robes to stand in the middle of the icy pond, grey ice and grey stone and grey skies above, everything looking monochrome grey with the only bright spot in it all being Bilbo's blue coat, getting smaller and smaller as the wizard takes him away, and he wonders whether he will ever see Bilbo again, whether they will manage to save him, whoever's help Gandalf seeks, or if the Hobbit – _his_ Hobbit, his beloved, his One – will die in the wizard's arms, and Thorin will never be able to look into his eyes and tell him everything he needs to tell him, everything Bilbo deserves to hear, wondering if all those unsaid words and unspent love will suffocate him in the end should Bilbo pass away. As he follows the wizard with his eyes, everything around him seems to merge into a sickly curtain of grey shrouding his vision, and, with a strange kind of detachment, Thorin thinks that he is either going insane again or is about to drop unconscious, both of which, he remarks in the same sort of indifferent manner, are less than acceptable for a King.


	2. Bofur

Very few of the Company were anywhere near impressed with the new addition, and perhaps rightfully so – Bilbo Baggins was indeed awfully petite, perhaps not for his own race, but too small in comparison with a Dwarf all the same; he fussed about a bit too much for everyone's liking and certainly wasn't brave enough (if at all), if his fainting at the mention of the dragon could be any indication. Besides, he didn't look like a burglar, didn't behave like a burglar and pretty much denied that he was one, much to Thorin's displeasure and Gandalf's chagrin. It was even a bit comical considering the fact that the wizard must have gone to great lengths to find the Halfling and persuade him to join. At the very least, he _claimed_ he had persuaded Bilbo, which, truth be told, didn't seem to be the case.

Thorin was right, Bilbo Baggins certainly looked more like a grocer than a burglar, which most probably meant that the Hobbit wouldn't approve of stealing anything – grocers and sellers were like that, very easily put off by attempted thievery; his household looked well-off, which meant that it was unlikely that he wanted riches untold he was promised as a reward for his services – everything he needed in life he already seemed to possess; and he also glared at them with so much righteous indignation throughout the entire evening for raiding his larder and wreaking havoc in his kitchen that even if he had been of a mind to join them before they had barged in on him, he surely looked very much averse to it now.

And still, there was something about Bilbo Baggins that made Bofur bet the following morning that, by noon, they would end up with their burglar riding along on a pony beside them, much to disbelieving huffs and unimpressed eyerolls of the Company. For all his looking well-to-do, settled in life and very much respectable, there was something in Bilbo's soft grey eyes which spoke of homesickness even while he was in his own home, a kind of longing in his gaze as he listened to the Dwarves play their instruments and sing songs of distant lands, dragons, pines on fire and stolen treasures, as if _that_ was the life he missed. It was a strange thing to witness, yet it wasn't the first time Bofur had seen such an emotion in others. It was indeed unexpected to notice it in a Hobbit, though – for all he knew about them, they were a very settled, quiet, comfort-loving folk – but somehow Bilbo didn't seem quite like the Halflings he had met before, what with that odd flicker of sadness in his gaze and the dreamy and wistful half-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he watched Thorin play his harp and sing the song.

The emotion was familiar because the last time Bofur had seen such a wistful glint in one's eyes had been but a few weeks ago, and the eyes belonged to no one other but Thorin Oakenshield himself.

Over the past decades, Dwarves had managed to carve a niche for themselves in the Blue Mountains, a life of comfort if not exactly a life of plenty. They had suffered for it for a long time, barely able to make ends meet, having to face and bear with hostility, resentment and dislike coming what seemed like from everywhere, but thanks to Thorin and his selfless determination to provide for his people no matter what, they had managed to make a life for themselves, a safe, peaceful and set life. The Blue Mountains had become a home for many, and there was a whole new generation of Dwarves who had been born and raised there, never knowing any other home except Ered Luin, with Erebor being nothing but a beautiful legend, a tale of past glory and magnificence which in the end was just that, a simple tale. Thorin's family lived prosperously enough, and Dís, who had pretty much ruled the whole settlement in anything but the name for years and who ruled it properly now that Thorin was gone, had made it known that she was content there, that it was a folly to endanger their people's lives again when they had just found their way back to comfortable normality, that many had settled down and had families with little Dwarflings to raise to carelessly risk it all going on a suicide mission to reclaim something which lay in ruin and had a dragon guarding it on top of it all. Ered Luin was home now, not as majestic and wealthy as Erebor had once been, but it was thriving in its own way, it was safe, and it was theirs, an opinion which many shared.

Not Thorin, though. Even as life had taken a favourable turn for the refugees of Erebor and started to keep them fed, occupied and reasonably well-off, even as his sister had settled down with her children, perfectly content to bring them up in the safety of the Blue Mountains, even before any idea of the Quest had been conceived for real, Thorin's eyes still looked east, that wistful expression in them never truly being extinguished by the safety and peacefulness which Ered Luin offered. It was a look of homesickness nurtured by the inner knowledge that for him, there wouldn't be rest anywhere until he set his foot back onto the familiar stone his very essence remembered so well and craved so much.

Strange as it was, the sad look in the Hobbit's eyes reminded Bofur of the one that he had witnessed in Thorin's for years upon years. He couldn't wrap his mind around what in the world could have possibly evoked it in Bilbo – perhaps the Shire wasn't his birthplace or maybe there were memories haunting his cosy little home, too burdening for him to bear them lightly – but it was obvious, to Bofur if not to anyone else, that somewhere deep inside, Bilbo desperately longed to be elsewhere, and the sadness was there because he simply didn't seem to know where the coveted _elsewhere_ really was.

This was, as far as Bofur was concerned, a rather miserable order of things indeed – it wasn't quite right, in his opinion, that someone of a race as generally merry and carefree as Hobbits tended to be, who had every single comfort available in this apparently quite opulent Hobbit-hole of his and who was utterly respectable, if Bilbo himself was to be trusted on the matter, would have that odd air of sorrow he wasn't probably even aware of. Perhaps this was why Gandalf had chosen him in the first place, sensing that Bilbo needed to go in search of his home even if the Hobbit didn't quite know it himself. Bofur couldn't really blame Bilbo for his profound irritation with the wizard, though – Gandalf indeed had a way of emerging out of the blue, intruding into one's measured life and turning it upside down. He had done the same to Thorin, really, presenting him with the map and the key and virtually leaving him no choice but to set off on this venture. Not that Thorin would have done differently even if he had been given another option, of course. And still, irritated or not, Bofur believed a change of scene might do the Hobbit something good, that was, if it didn't do him in first. Maybe for Bilbo home was elsewhere along the way, just like it was for Thorin and those few who had joined his Company.

That was why Bofur had very little doubt as to whether they would see their burglar the next day or not. There was of course a possibility that the Hobbit would be put off, too scared of the thirteen fiercely looking Dwarves, one of them a crownless King with a permanent scowl on his face the heaviness of which made up for the missing weight of a crown on his brow; that he would be unwilling to exchange the comfort he knew and had, even if it was a sad comfort for whatever reason, for the utter lack of such and very slim chances of coming back unscathed or even alive, but Bofur still reckoned he wouldn't be disappointed if he bet on Bilbo joining them.

And indeed, he wasn't. 

Apart from winning his well-deserved money, though, Bofur found soon enough that it was quite pleasant to have Bilbo as their fourteenth companion. That he knew him very little really didn't matter much – Bofur was an easy-going Dwarf if he said so himself, fond of merry songs and good tales and a nice chat with a pipe in hand, and as far as Hobbits went, they could do all of those things quite exceptionally.

Some joked that Bofur had joint this venture solely because he had been promised free ale, and although that wasn't precisely wrong, there were other, more serious motives behind his being here. Every single Dwarf in Thorin's Company had their own motives. Thorin himself would obviously remain restless and then start to waste away slowly if he didn't reclaim Erebor or perished trying. His nephews had never seen the great halls of Thrór, the last true King under the Mountain, which they had been told so much about and there had never been that longing for something they knew and couldn't have in them which haunted Thorin most of the time, but they were young and their blood was hot and they all but worshipped their Uncle, so it had been no surprise they were more eager than anyone else to set off on this Quest – much to Dís's dismay. It was a chance for them to prove to everyone that they were true sons of Durin not only in name and blood but also in spirit; to prove that they were mature – and Bofur was a bit wary and a bit sad that this venture might indeed make them too old for their young age all too soon, the way bloody battles, too many grievous losses and the rough life had made their Uncle.

Dwalin was Thorin's oldest and closest friend – they had lived through so much together, faced death and pain and suffering shoulder to shoulder, so there was no question whether he would follow Thorin even if the latter had asked him to venture out straight to Balrog's den by his side. He was loyal to a fault and was perhaps the only other Dwarf that missed Erebor quite as badly and desperately as Thorin himself did.

His cousin Bifur had little aspirations in terms of wealth and glory, but after his infamous injury he believed he really had nothing to lose anymore – he didn't have a family and he was a seasoned warrior much more useful in a fight than in making toys, sophisticated and wondrous as they were. There was an itch in him that had always called for battles and journeys and valiant deeds, so Bofur hadn't been surprised to find him among the very first who had answered Thorin's call.

The others had their own motives, even though calling Erebor home again most probably tugged at more strings in their souls than they were willing to admit. That, and the sense of loyalty to Thorin – after all it was him who had managed to keep them together and lead them through some of the darkest years in the Dwarven history. Besides, all of them had lost something either to the dragon attack or during the lean years afterwards, and none had quite been able to manage to recover from it. Revenge had never sounded so sweet.

Bofur, though – he had gone for the Company itself, really. He, too, had lost a lot – too much, perhaps – ever since they had been cast out of Erebor, and the only thing which had managed to keep him together and prevented him from shattering into many pieces, too many for them to be put back again, had been his friends and what remained of his kin. He had a decent life in the Blue Mountains now, not easy and indolent, but it was a good one – having a job to do, the sense of being useful to his people and having enough to provide for himself and his family was sufficient to make him feel content and grateful for what he had. He didn't dream of Erebor at night nor saw it looming over the horizon of his mind's eye at all times like it was with Thorin, so he had little desire to risk everything again for what many wisely judged to be a suicide attempt. These Dwarves, though, were his friends, closest and dearest ones, and he couldn't imagine his life in Ered Luin should they never come back from this Quest. It hadn't really been a question for him at all whether to answer Thorin's call or not – he was here because these Dwarves were what made the Blue Mountains home for him, and if they decided to embark on whatever insane mission, he was all in, following those who gave him the sense of belonging rather than any other pursuit. He doubted they would see much ale, let alone for free, any time soon – in fact, the only time they would had probably already happened – it had been Bilbo's ale – but it was as good an excuse as any.

And since Bofur had known intimately well the shame and hurt of being an outcast, an unwanted stranger, over the years he and the others had had to wander in search of work – any work at all – food and a place to settle down, he decided he would make it his business not to let their resident burglar, who most certainly wasn't much of a burglar at all, be too daunted by the hardships of life on the road, the company of not particularly well-mannered Dwarves and their very much gloomy and fearsome leader, who over the first couple of weeks of their journey treated Bilbo as if the Hobbit was no more than a bothersome but necessary evil he was forced to bear with.

The truth, though, was that Bilbo wasn't that at all – a bit fussy with his handkerchiefs and the tidiness of his appearance, aye, but he was also quite a fine cook, which made their meagre meals a bit more varied and delicious thanks to a whole assortment of herbs and spices he had dragged with him from home. Besides, Bilbo didn't complain – to any of them, at least, although the long days in the saddle and sleeping on roots and stones pained him a lot, if his sour expressions in the mornings and evenings could be anything to judge by. He was also a talented story-teller, able to mould his words with fascinating ease when he had a mind to do that, and Bofur enjoyed many a tale from the life and history of the Shire over an evening meal as Bilbo taught him to make nice neat smoke rings.

All these little traits of the Hobbit didn't go unnoticed, and before long, most members of the Company warmed up to him. He might not be the most lauded of burglars in Middle-Earth, but he was without a shadow of a doubt a very amiable and amusing fellow. Balin treated him with respect and amicability because he was kind and wise; Fíli and Kíli took a liking to him because they were young and thus open and curious. Even though they didn't really take Bilbo's participation in their Quest seriously and teased the poor Hobbit too often for it to be polite, they were still drawn by his gentle manners and friendly smiles. Bombur was a large and jolly Dwarf and thus treated anyone who was smaller than him with almost parental tenderness – and it had to be said that Bilbo was practically tiny in comparison with him so he was perhaps in stock for as much fussing and coddling as any Dwarfling child. Ori softened to Bilbo almost instantly, too, because he was the youngest and the shiest among them all and he found the kindness and respect the Hobbit treated him with impossible to resist, their mutual love for literature serving as the glue to bind them quite fast. And then, Bofur might be mistaken, of course, but there was a sparkle of warmth even in Dwalin's fierce eyes. Not that anyone who hadn't known Dwalin for years would have noticed anything but severity and ferociousness in them, but Bofur was familiar enough with the warrior to know that deep inside, he had a soft spot for wee ones. Bilbo was by no means a child, but he was small enough and was nice to pretty much everyone, even to Thorin despite his scowling and glaring, which perhaps was enough for Dwalin to reserve most of his own glares and scowls to himself when he had to deal with the Hobbit. And he treated him much in the same way as he would a child who, for some unfathomable reason, ended up on this Quest with them – ignored him most of the time believing this was not a place for either children or gentle folk, but still kept an eye on the Hobbit from the distance to ward off any trouble that might come his way.

The only one who remained as cold and withdrawn and openly displeased with Bilbo's presence with them as he had been from the start was Thorin himself, but then again, it wasn't as if their leader generally tended to be the most outgoing and friendly to strangers, especially if he was forced to be in the same company with them and didn't trust them at all. Thorin was Thorin. He treasured and valued his family and the closest of his friends fiercely, but the Hobbit was none of those, so his cold ignorance was to be expected and accepted as something of ordinary.

"He doesn't look particularly glad to have a Hobbit on his Quest," Bilbo said once, a couple of weeks into their journey, as he and Bofur were smoking their pipes together, a little way away from the rest of the Company, sheltered from the wind by a large boulder on the edge of a cliff.

Bilbo had wandered over there on his own, causing Thorin to stomp after him and all but tell him off for straying away in his customary dour manner in front of everyone.

"This is not the Shire anymore, Master Burglar, these lands are perilous and I would not have you traipsing around thoughtlessly, endangering yourself and the others," he had snapped, making the poor sod flinch visibly, Bilbo's mouth opening as if he wished to say something in his defence but couldn't really muster up the courage, most certainly wondering what in the world he was even doing here with the lot of them in the first place.

Bofur had come to his rescue, placating Thorin by promising to accompany the Hobbit if the latter indeed wished to wander about. He didn't see much fault with that – it wasn't like Bilbo was intending to hike straight into the woods, so here they were now, smoking and watching the last light in the west bleed away from the darkening sky.

"Don't mind Thorin much," Bofur said presently, trying to be supportive. "He is what he is. Life made him that way, and that was perhaps the only chance for him to survive everything fate has thrown at him."

Bilbo only nodded and puffed at his pipe, a few minutes of silence which followed settling companionably enough between the two of them.

"He looks as if he left his heart somewhere years upon years ago, somewhere where he cannot reach it anymore," the Hobbit said after a while, thoughtfully, voice devoid of anger or resentment one might expect after having been treated the way Bilbo had been.

Bofur couldn't hold back an amused huff, making his companion look up at him in confusion.

"What?" Bilbo asked, with a small frown on his brow, apparently not finding either Thorin or his story a laughable matter.

 _That's precisely what you look like, too, little fellow_ , Bofur wanted to say but managed to hold _that_ piece of his mind back – this wouldn't be polite to Bilbo, and the last thing he wanted was to hurt the Hobbit's feelings or make him feel uncomfortable. Thorin had been doing his fair share of that, thank you very much.

Instead, he shook his head, giving Bilbo a reassuring smile.

"Just that you're very right in your assessment. I think he did leave his heart in Erebor all those ages ago and he'll never have it back 'nless he gets to that Mountain of his. There's a lot said about treasures buried there, but that's not quite what drives him on, I think, at least not all of it. Thorin wishes for peace and prosperity for his people, aye, but he wishes for peace for himself, too, and there won't be any as long as Smaug dwells in what used to be his childhood home. I sometimes think he's too strong and determined for his own good."

"What do you mean?" the Hobbit frowned.

"A lesser Dwarf would have reconciled with it long ago and looked for consolation elsewhere, in his craft or in someone perhaps, anyone really, a wife, a lover, a friend, someone to confide in and soothe that constant ache that gnaws at him at the end of the day. Most of us did just that – if you can't change something, you gotta change your attitude and move on. Thorin, though, I guess he learnt how to be strong enough to have himself for consolation. It's truly admirable, but it's a lonely path to tread at the same time. He's the King, though, so who am I to judge, a simple miner, I don't really know much about kings except that a good one has to put his people before himself, and trust me on that, Thorin has done that many times, way too many for his own personal good perhaps. He's a good Dwarf, even if a bit too gloomy and distrustful, a good leader for his people, but there's always a price to pay."

"Well, I'll try to do my best not to add to his problems," Bilbo said softly, sounding, of all things, rather sympathetic. His pipe had long been forgotten and was now barely smouldering. His eyes were fixed thoughtfully on something way down below them. "Seems like he's got enough of them as it is."

"You're hardly a problem, Bilbo," Bofur reached out and gave the Hobbit's small shoulder a light squeeze of his mittened hand. "Quite the opposite. I haven't had such scrumptious meals for years and your company has truly been a pleasure. Thorin will come around eventually, as soon as he understands you can be trusted."

Bilbo nodded, looking unconvinced, but said nothing more.

They returned to the camp soon after that, Thorin's gaze meeting them and following them until they settled by the fire, the look in it unreadable, though, so Bofur couldn't say whether he was still irked or merely keeping a watchful eye on the two of his Company.


	3. Thorin

What Thorin knew about Hobbits – and he had met a few during the vagrant years he and his people had spent on the road, and then, later, there had been and still was some trade with the folk occasionally happening in the Blue Mountains – didn't seem to him convincing enough to believe Gandalf that one of them could be helpful in what he and his Company had to accomplish. Hobbits were too cautious and suspicious, and some rather cowardly, too. Those he had encountered were merchants, with some experience of life on the road and the notion of the dangers that may lay in wait at the very least. Bilbo Baggins from the Shire, however, was drastically different even from them, and in Thorin's eyes, it wasn't in a favourable way at all.

The Hobbit amused him at first, if he could put aside his disappointment at Gandalf's choice in the first place. A small creature of the land, with his love of lush gardens and full larders, shaking and sighing over his china and his mother's doilies, with his eyes wide-open and perpetually surprised – folk like him should live in their comfortable holes in the ground and cultivate their fields, away from wars, dangers and fire-breathing dragons. Personally, he really had nothing against either Hobbits in general or Bilbo Baggins in particular. His disappointment came from Gandalf's obvious error of judgement – after all, they had trusted the wizard to be experienced and wise enough to hire a proper burglar for them, and he presented them a Hobbit who looked anything but a burglar. Come to think of it, he didn't even look like a grocer Thorin compared him with – he looked like someone who could spend his days writing books and puffing smoke rings into the blue skies above, lost in his daydreams. That was frustratingly far off the mark in terms of what kind of person the Company needed.

Thorin didn't expect him to join their Quest – after all, fainting at the mention of a dragon was a clear enough sign of the Hobbit's utter unsuitability for their purpose, and yet, for some unfathomable reason, he did stick with them, to Thorin's further, even more profound, displeasure. He barely looked like one who could protect himself from tripping over his large feet and breaking his neck once he set his foot beyond the borders of the Shire, and Thorin was in no mood to babysit their make-believe burglar all the way to the Mountain. He had his people to care about; he had hoped he would be offered a professional who could look after himself if not aid in looking after the rest of his Company. It was the least he could ask from the wizard and yet he had gone and dragged this Hobbit along. Bilbo's homesick face, those big eyes full of sadness, which was substituted by apprehension on those rare occasions Thorin addressed him, only annoyed him further.

He did his best to suppress it all, though – the Halfling was going with them, apparently for as long as the wizard had his say in it or until Bilbo himself finally found the fault of his decision and scurried off back home, so there was no point in open animosity just yet. After all, the Hobbit hadn't done anything to him, personally, so Thorin did try hard to not let his frustration and irritation show too often. He might be doing a rather poor job out of it – he was no diplomat like Balin or a kind-hearted sop like Bofur, so his best might not have been particularly appreciated by the wizard and his little ward. That didn't bother him much, though, as long as the Hobbit didn't get in his way, and, to his credit, Bilbo was doing all he could not to.

The first time Thorin was made to look at their new companion in a slightly different light happened, of all places, in Rivendell, and the occasion was hardly a pleasant one. It turned out both of them had chosen to be wandering around that night, and by a strange quirk of fate ended up in a perfect spot, sheltered from sight on a terrace lost amongst statues and leafy greenery, to accidentally – or not, in Thorin's case – be able to overhear what Gandalf was talking about with the Lord of this place.

Grudgingly, Thorin had to admit that Elrond had taken him by surprise with the willingness to aid him and his Company and the hospitality he had shown them, albeit food was wretched and the company of the Elves morose. Even so, hospitality or not, it did little to placate his animosity towards Elven folk in general and by no means managed to convince him to trust them. That was what had made him wander through Rivendell unnoticed, over the airy bridges and through the delicately adorned colonnades, following Gandalf and the Elven Lord – his wish to see how much information the wizard was willing to disclose to the Elf. There was no guarantee that the latter would not suddenly change his mind and switch from hospitality to hostility, and Thorin had to protect the people who had trusted him with their lives. If they had to leave under the cover of the night, he would prefer to know about it in advance not to be caught unawares.

What had drawn Bilbo out here in the dead of night he could not tell and didn't much care about, for that matter. The Hobbit had been seen sauntering through the place in a dreamlike fashion, as if he could hardly believe his eyes were really seeing everything that surrounded him. Thorin wasn't particularly pleased by it – after all, Bilbo was still a part of _his_ Company, whether Thorin himself approved of it or not, and having him strolling around in the heart of their enemies' territory didn't seem right. That said, he also understood that the Halfling wasn't his subject, nor did he have any strife with the Elves, so Thorin couldn't very well lock him in his room to prevent him from being out and about whenever he deemed necessary.

Just as he couldn't order him to leave now, all the while Elrond was spilling out Thorin's family secrets and reminding the wizard of the less than favourable part of its history. The knowledge had mostly been buried under the weight of grief and other worries, the curse of the dragon sickness lying heavily on Thorin's kin not being much of a concern when there was no gold, no throne and no Mountain in sight. Now, however, Elrond was bringing up the topic, and worse, Thorin wasn't even allowed to bear the shame of it in solitude. Bilbo was lingering by the bannister, swathed in shadows falling from the statue next to him, the line of his shoulders tense, though whether because the unexpected piece of news shocked him or if he knew that Thorin was standing just behind him or both he didn't know.

Elrond's words hurt and angered him, but shame was by far the worst part of it all, dousing bot the anger and the hurt for the time being. If Thorin were here alone, he could swallow it down – he knew the history of his family better than anyone else, after all, had had a chance to see for himself what _Thrór_ had become by the end of his rule. There was no grace in such an end, being left weak and drifting and but a shadow of a great and powerful King under the Mountain he had once been, but Thorin had lived with it for many a long year to more or less reconcile with the thought.

Now, though, having Bilbo hear it, too, and coming from no one other but the Lord of Rivendell himself, not some miserable gossip the Hobbit might catch elsewhere, made Thorin's cheeks and the tips of his ears burn violently. Here he was, the rightful heir of the Throne under the Mountain, the throne he was on a Quest to reclaim, with the baggage of everything he had given up for it and the losses he had suffered, here he was just to be speculated over by some pathetic Elf and have his sanity questioned. He despised their kind even more now, but the worst thing was that he knew that Elrond might have the right of it, after all. There was nothing that guaranteed him his sanity once he reached the Mountain and reclaimed his treasures. The thought was terrifying, evoking a deeply ingrained, profound, abject fear of losing it completely, of becoming weak and useless and dangerous to his own people. Thorin had lived with that fear for many years, and he could perhaps stand it now when Elrond had voiced the idea, but letting others know it – letting the Hobbit know it, too, something he had no right to know about, something which wasn't his business in the first place – made Thorin flinch and burn with shame. How was he supposed to demand respect and loyalty from someone who would now consider him potentially mad?

He didn't know what he expected to see when the Halfling finally turned to face him, once the voices of the wizard and the Elf had died down, Bilbo's movements slow and cautious as if he were apprehensive that Thorin might already be out of his mind. There should be fear, most certainly. Disgust, perhaps. Resentment. Accusation of any kind. Distrust.

Bilbo surprised him, though.

"You are not your grandfather, Thorin," he said softly, his voice infuriatingly reasonable even though his gaze was indeed somewhat cautious as he eyed Thorin from his spot by the bannister.

"I don't need your pity or your support, burglar," Thorin snapped, taken aback by the relative calmness and kindness in the Hobbit's face, yet still unable to overcome the shame that was gnawing at him relentlessly. The only way to deal with it seemed to be hostility, to try to turn Bilbo away before the Hobbit had a chance to do it by his own volition. He had always considered attack to be the best sort of defence, after all, and he was willing to resort to it even in this matter.

"I don't particularly care about either pitying or supporting you," Bilbo said, and Thorin could see a wince distorting his features for a fraction of a second. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared there. "I don't know much of your story, except for what Gandalf and the others have told me, so, as far as I'm concerned, you might be as mad as they say; going to confront a dragon with twelve Dwarves and a hoax of a burglar sounds mad enough to me."

"Then what did you mean by saying that? I don't remember asking for your opinion."

"Just what it sounded like, I suppose – that we are not our sires. I am not my grandfather either – in fact, he'd be turning in his grave had he known that a Baggins of his clan has ventured out with a bunch Dwarven vagabonds for a company and a wizard in tow, and yet here I am all the same."

"It might still have been for the best if you had remained back where you belong," Thorin shot back, his long-accumulated displeasure with the Halfling's presence here, his deep-rooted dislike of the Elves and the burning embarrassment caused by what Elrond had mentioned making his mood more than just a bit foul, and it didn't matter that even as he spat it out, some part of him knew that he wasn't being quite fair to the Hobbit.

"Maybe I should have, and maybe not. I haven't decided on that yet," Bilbo stuck his acutely beardless chin up a little defiantly. "That wasn't what I was talking about anyway. There are things one can change, and then there are those one cannot. You cannot let ghosts from the past and other people's speculations add to all your worries; it seems you have enough of them as it is."

 _"Ghosts from the past?"_ Thorin growled, his anger and irritation with the Hobbit flaring back to life because of such insolence. Something deep inside of him told him that he might be mistaken and what he took to be insolence was something else entirely, but he shoved that voice back into where it had come from. "What can _you_ know about ghosts from the past?"

It made Bilbo step back in alarm, and he was right to do so because, all of a sudden, along with being thoroughly ashamed, Thorin was almost livid. Added to Elrond's presumptions, what he certainly didn't need was a miserable little Hobbit educating him about something he could never have imagined in that little head of his, let alone gone through, to be able to understand.

"What can a soft, faint-hearted creature like you know about ghosts from the past?" Thorin hissed again, voice dripping with venom the amount of which was surprising even to himself. He was past caring, though. Perhaps, if he scared the wits out of the Halfling, he would finally run back home and spare him the worry of having to look after him. "Have you ever seen death on wings big as a mountain breathe fire on everything you hold dear; fire so hot that even stone itself melted? Have you ever seen your loved ones die the most horrid death imaginable, scorched to ashes by dragonfire? Or maybe your grandfather going so utterly insane that he wished to save his treasure rather than his people, or watching him being beheaded right in front of your eyes? Or your own brother, a little older than a child, die on a blood-soaked battlefield with a damned smile still on his lips as he choked on his own blood? Have you ever seen cold dark winters and starvation and illness and death, nowhere to go to and having to trudge for days, months in the rain and the snow and the mud, unable to protect anyone, or save those you cherished more than your life? _Have you, burglar?_ "

He didn't grab Bilbo by his waistcoat but it was a close call. He was on the verge of doing that and shaking the insolent fool of a Hobbit until his teeth clattered and the noodle in his head he had for brains was shaken enough to be rearranged so that it would send him all the way back to the Shire at long last. He didn't, though, perhaps barely holding on to the remains of self-control, or maybe stopped by those startled wide eyes staring back at him in shock and… damn him to the deepest caverns under the Mountain, there was _pity_ there, too, bloody pity Thorin couldn't stand.

"I… forgive me," Bilbo murmured. He held Thorin's glare, though, then swallowed and winced as if it pained him. "Truly, Thorin, I am sorry. I… I didn't mean to…"

"What did you mean to do then?" Thorin demanded, his breath leaving his nostrils with a hiss.

"Just to tell you that we are not responsible for the deeds of our fathers," the Hobbit said mildly. By Mahal, he should already be on his way rushing to the wizard or his home or _elsewhere_ , but he was still stubbornly jutting his chin out in front of Thorin, meeting his furious glare and holding it and having the audacity to talk back. "Don't let something which might never even come true consume you. I know you don't like me--"

"There's little of you to like," Thorin spat but even as he did it, something shifted in him, surprised into life by the Hobbit's unexpected honesty, stubbornness and his sincere attempt at being supportive.

Bilbo gave him an exasperated kind of scowl, not as fearsome and feral as Dwalin's, but unimpressed enough to rival those Dís and Balin were prone to when they thought Thorin was being particularly aggravating. Thorin might be amused if it weren't for his current state.

"And there's too much of you to dislike, Your Majesty," the Hobbit retorted, "but it doesn't matter. What does is that you are not your grandfather, you have every chance in the world to do better than him because you are an entirely different person, determined and loyal and…" he trailed off for a moment, and then went on, a bit awkwardly, "kingly. Noble. Honourable. You have enough concerns and worries without speculating on what may never come to pass."

"What do _you_ know about my worries? I don't remember sharing any of them with you."

"Well, it happens I have eyes and I know how to use them," the Hobbit said, sounding more exasperated rather than frightened now. "I see you brood staring into the fire or the darkness every single day, worrying about those bruises and knocks your people got in that brawl with the trolls, even though they are not your fault because you cannot protect everyone. I see you looking at your nephews wishing they were elsewhere safe but knowing you need every person and thus not being able to send them back to the Blue Mountains, and because they are grown up enough to follow you by their own will. I see you discussing plans and tactics with Dwalin worrying that you will never have enough Dwarves to fight the dragon no matter how many of your folk might come. I see you looking north worrying about what you left in Ered Luin, and then looking into yourself probably blaming yourself for what you left in the past. It's not like you've been doing any of that quite furtively, so the list goes on."

Bilbo stared at him silently as if challenging Thorin to confront him on this, improbable as it was, and Thorin cast his eyes down almost despite himself. This was way too close for comfort even though the Hobbit hadn't said anything of particular novelty. Those who knew Thorin well enough knew about all of this, though not many dared to speak out right into his face. Perhaps this was what put his teeth on edge now, this Halfling who knew nothing of him somehow looking straight into his soul and voicing it all in his infuriatingly mild and reasonable manner. 

"This is no concern of yours," Thorin finally grunted, once he had managed to quell another bout of rising anger and irritation. "You're here to do your part of the job, and that's the Arkenstone."

Bilbo lowered his eyes and nodded; lips pressed tightly together. Thorin mirrored his gesture, turned around and stomped off. He had only managed to take a few steps, however, when there came a quiet, _'Good night, Master Oakenshield'_ , the Hobbit being his aggravatingly civil self again even despite Thorin himself not having been particularly civil to him in the first place. It made him stop in his tracks, the first tendril of regret and embarrassment at his own actions, not at Elrond's assumptions or Bilbo's intervention, flickering within him.

"And to you, Master Baggins," he wished after a pause, quietly because he didn't quite trust his voice to be even remotely cordial, and then was on his way back to his chamber without a single glance at the burglar.

Over the next few days after that unpleasant conversation, Bilbo did his best to shirk Thorin's company even more than he normally would, spending most of his time with Balin and Ori in the library, or chatting with Bofur or the Elves, or simply wandering around Rivendell. He also avoided Thorin's eyes whenever Thorin looked at him, making him wonder whether he was feeling upset by the less than polite exchange they had had. Thorin knew he might – _must_ – have been too harsh; after all, all the Hobbit had probably wanted to achieve was to somehow smoothen an uncomfortable moment and merely dilute the tension, and what Thorin had done was insult the poor sod, perhaps giving him an idea about the threat of physical abuse along the way. Thorin dismissed the thought fast enough, though – this Quest was no place for gentle folk, Dwalin had been right about it, and if the Hobbit couldn't handle a few harsh words, then he had probably better be moving back to his homeland while it still wasn't too late.

Predictably enough, the Hobbit didn't, setting off with the Company as they left Imladris and headed for the Misty Mountains.

His confrontation with Bilbo triggered some shift in his attitude to the Hobbit, however, little as Thorin liked to admit it. The burglar's well-intended if unwanted pity or compassion or whatever it was tugged at something in him, belatedly making him feel quite remorseful for his harsh reaction, and, almost against his will, he ended up watching Bilbo a bit more attentively. There was something about the Hobbit he couldn't quite put his finger on, something utterly different from himself or anyone else he knew. Dwarves were passionate and fierce by nature, even the ones considered to be the most mellow and patient, and Thorin certainly wasn't one of those, the hard life and all the years of barely being able to make ends meet only making him more bitter and short-tempered. Bilbo, on the other hand… he seemed everything which Thorin himself wasn't, level-headed and mild and infuriatingly polite, loving to watch things and read his books – he had even dragged a couple with him from the Shire, Thorin had noticed. He was also sensitive and sentimental, something which Thorin had stopped being ages ago simply for the sake of his own survival – if he had let emotions consume him, he would have lost his mind long ago, and along with that what had remained of his family and people would have perished, too.

He finally decided that this was it, the inexplicable something which made his stomach almost churn with irritation whenever he laid his eyes on the Hobbit – that Bilbo must have never seen real hardships life could throw at a person beyond those concerning what to cook for dinner or which book to read, thus being more serene and content with everything around him. It wasn't particularly bad, of course, it couldn't be bad that there were those who were lucky enough to live their lives in peace and happiness, having the comforts of their home and the pleasure of the company of those they held dear. What was bad, however, was that Thorin couldn't even begin to comprehend why in the world the Hobbit would want to throw all of that away so carelessly and embark on what many had dubbed a suicide mission, willingly running away from everything he knew and obviously cherished with a group of ragged Dwarves he had never met before. Thorin couldn't understand how one would wish to risk all that voluntarily, and it made him unexpectedly angry, almost personally affronted. 

It wasn't envy, he told himself. It was that he could never understand the Halfling and the Halfling could never understand him, their lives existing in utterly different worlds. Or perhaps, if he was being honest enough with his own self, it could be. He was envious of the home Bilbo had, of the peace and prosperity and the sense of innocence and contentedness which permeated the Shire, and it made him furious that one could cast it all off so easily while he had had to all but carve his way back to a more or less decent life for himself and his people, buy it with sweat and blood and so many lives. Aye, he was angry with the Halfling and, he realised suddenly, he was also angry with himself for the very same reason – for not being able to be contented with what Ered Luin offered him, for not being able to settle down there in relative peace and prosperity, for this ceaseless craving for the majestic halls he had known and walked so many years ago.

Indeed, he and the Hobbit were awfully different, and he couldn't quite comprehend how come their paths had crossed at all. Yet, somehow, they had, and something about Bilbo Baggins's forlorn eyes suddenly made Thorin wonder whether there might be after all something similar about the two of them, as well. After all, both were willing to leave behind what they had and venture out into the unknown to face danger and possible death. That said, Thorin had a very definite picture of what he would get should his Quest succeed, while the Hobbit's motives remained completely unfathomable.

Thorin still wasn't pleased to have Bilbo in his Company, but, somehow, he was also growing more intrigued by him, not quite so plain and simple a fellow as he had appeared at the beginning of their journey..


	4. Ori

Ori didn't particularly enjoy being the youngest in the Company, and, to make matters worse, there were his two older brothers hovering over him at all times as if he was some green Dwarfling who had never seen real battle. Well, he hadn't, not really, but he had been in a few fights and, although his swordsmanship and skills at other weaponry weren't as impressive as those of Fíli and Kíli, who were almost his peers, or those of Gimli Glóin's son who had been left back in Ered Luin due to still being underage, he could nonetheless stand his ground and fight sufficiently well if push came to shove. Even so, he could see it in Thorin's eyes that, out of the whole Company, he was most concerned about him as well as about his nephews, finding the three of them way too young and inexperienced for such a venture, never trusting them a night watch on their own and sending them off to do some reconnaissance only when it was pretty obvious to everyone that there was no danger around.

Fíli and Kíli had each other, though, to distract them from being treated so unfairly, and while Ori had always got on with both brothers well enough, having spent his whole childhood in their company and virtually being raised by Thorin's family as well as by his brothers, they were as different from him as chalk and cheese. Both were loud and mouthy and boisterous, insufferably fond of various kinds of mischief, and although Fíli had always been the more reasonable and responsible of the two, it only meant that he could devise still more elaborate pranks; and then Kíli was just a walking disaster, never shutting up, his hair always in a mess and with twigs and leaves sticking out of it, his sorry excuse for a stubble refusing to grow properly, which apparently made the younger brother compensate for it with his vivacity, restlessness and never ceasing, wicked sort of inventiveness. Together, they made a formidable handful. Even here on this Quest, which was supposed to be serious, they would still be joking and teasing and chattering the day away, and nights, too, if Thorin occasionally didn't bark at them to shut their pieholes and let everyone have a moment of peace.

Ori had never been boisterous or unruly or wayward; he loved his books, his lessons and being in the company of older Dwarves who always had a tale or two to share with him, of battles and wars and of peace and prosperity, love stories and funny anecdotes and heroic tales. Much as he had desired to go on this Quest with Thorin and his brothers, a few weeks in Ori had found himself missing his books, his writing, and his long thorough lessons with Balin back in the Blue Mountains. It didn't mean he wanted to go back – he didn't; he, too, like Fíli and Kíli, had been raised on stories of Erebor, and making an attempt to reclaim their home, even if he had never seen it with his own eyes, seemed like a splendid adventure to take part in and then write it down, that was, if any of them came out of it alive. Still, he had felt a bit lonesome, even despite his brothers' attempts at babysitting him at all times, which were more annoying rather than helpful.

That was why Bilbo proved to be a godsent, and Ori warmed up to the Hobbit right from day one, when their Company raided his larder leaving their host fuming and scoffing and scolding them. He noticed the numerous books on shelves and pictures on walls, and that was enough for him to treat their unfortunate little burglar with friendliness. Surely, someone who loved reading as much as the Hobbit seemed to was worth knowing. Besides, Bilbo tended to be almost as quiet as Ori was, not shy but rather calm and easy-going sort of fellow, approachable and polite and amiable most of the time, when he was not hungry or soaked to the bone, that was. His stoic attempts to bear with the hardships of life on the road, which he most certainly had never experienced, were admirable enough, too.

Ori had wagered money on Bilbo's participation back in the very beginning, and had been gratified not only to get his well-deserved sum but also to have the Hobbit as his new friend. Ever since then, they had spent many an evening lost in conversation about books and tales, histories of their peoples and local lore, music and songs and art and everything in between. In Rivendell, the two of them along with Balin and Oin, and sometimes Gandalf, had been lost in the great library of Lord Elrond most of the time, which provoked teasing from the terrible terror twins, unimpressed and uncomprehending head shakes from Dwalin and Glóin, and frequent suspicious glares and scowls from Thorin himself, none of which had put them off.

Currently, they were half-way between Rivendell and the pass they would have to take if they wished to find themselves on the other side of the Misty Mountains, which would allow them access to the eastern lands, deserted highlands swarming with orcs and goblins, Enchanted Forest of the Woodland King, what remained of the old thriving city of Esgaroth on the Long lake, and then, finally, the Lonely Mountain itself. They were moving on foot now, the steep mountain paths too arduous for ponies to climb, especially laden with the baggage they had to carry, ascending higher and moving deeper into the Misty Mountains, the jagged snow-covered peaks gleaming crimson in the rays of the setting sun growing a bit larger as days passed. Ori was used to scenery like that, having spent a lot of his childhood and youth on the road, travelling with merchants or moving places, and even though he genuinely enjoyed such views, mountains always being particularly close to his Dwarven heart, he would probably be paying it much less attention but for the Hobbit at his side. Bilbo, a gentlehobbit by birth and a perceptive soul, looked around with eyes so full of fascination, his mouth open so wide that one of the Company often had to remind him in a joking manner to close it before he caught a fly with it. Ori was glad for it, for the fascination had finally come to dispel the ever-present shadow of sorrow in his friend's eyes at least a little, one which before had refused to disappear even when Bilbo laughed.

As the evening descended on them and the Company made camp, he and Bilbo got engaged in a discussion on literature and its different genres in Dwarven and Hobbit cultures as they sat by the merrily crackling fire, a luxury they could still afford not having yet gone too deep into the mountains where drawing attention to themselves would be life-threatening. Nights were getting chillier here at the altitude even though it was still just past midsummer, so a fire was a comfort. Bilbo was just telling him about a collection of riddles he had never had a chance to finish due to thirteen Dwarves and a certain wizard, who was sadly still absent, barging in on him and dragging him on a rather dubious adventure, when a gruff voice interrupted the Hobbit mid-sentence.

"So you are a writer as well, Master Hobbit?" Thorin huffed from his place across the fire from Ori and Bilbo, the eyes of the latter flicking to him with a mixture of surprise and understandable wariness. "Anything _but_ a burglar then."

Ori suppressed a sigh. Thorin was a good Dwarf, a good leader and a good friend, a role model, really, but his innate distrust to strangers and his ever-present displeasure with the smallest member of his Company was beginning to become tiring even for the likes of Ori, ones who were placid and patient by nature. Besides, in his opinion, it was utterly undeserved – so far, Bilbo hadn't done anything to compromise himself, show his unsuitability for the Quest or incapability in what was asked of him. He hadn't done anything wrong, but rather quite the opposite; he had proved himself useful in that skirmish with the trolls and generally a help on the road, what with his knowledge of songs and stories and his cooking skills and his pleasant manners, and yet here Thorin was, still jabbing at the poor fellow.

"Have I ever claimed I am one?" Bilbo surprised Ori by asking, sounding a little fed up with their leader, but then again, Thorin had it coming. "It was the first thing I told you, Master Dwarf, that I am no burglar, whatever Gandalf might have led you to believe."

"I meant no offence, Master Baggins." Of all things, Thorin sounded almost civilly placating for once in a lifetime, at least as civil as Thorin could be, what with the ever-present crease on his brow and the firm set of his jaw. "It was merely an observation. What do you write?"

There was an almost reluctant sort of curiosity in Thorin's face, which Ori didn't quite expect to see, and neither did Bilbo judging by the frown which puckered his forehead as if he was waiting for some hidden trap and couldn't quite detect where it was, or if it was there at all. Ori wondered, too, because the sudden change from gruff resignment to something akin to civility in Thorin's attitude was a little disconcerting, and his curiosity and attempts at conversation where previously there had been commands if he had had to say anything to the Hobbit at all even more so.

"I… well, really, it's nothing much," Bilbo shrugged. "Just a fancy of mine."

"Oh, Bilbo is being too humble," Ori piped in, feeling bold enough to speak out, perhaps because the matter didn't concern him personally but rather a friend who deserved praise, and Ori was generous with giving it. "He collects lore of different peoples, fairy-tales and anecdotes and riddles and that kind of thing, and also makes up stories for Hobbit children and--"

"—and there's really nothing to it, Ori," Bilbo interrupted him, not unkindly. "I'm not much of a writer, although people reckon I can spin words together relatively well. But I merely write down what they say and give it some flow of a… well, of a story. Nothing to be too proud of."

"Being able to put together a good story is certainly something to be proud of, laddie," Balin pointed out with an encouraging smile, and he would know something about stories for sure. Ori smiled at the old Dwarf gratefully. "It takes time and talent to spin it properly."

"Uncle, why don't you tell us something?" Kíli chimed in suddenly, making Thorin jerk his head towards his nephew with an expression of mild dread on his face. "So that Bilbo could add it to his collection of the great tales of Middle-Earth one day?" he grinned, giving the Hobbit a wink and looking quite pleased with himself.

"Kíli--"

"Yes, why don't you? You were good at telling us tales when we were but little Dwarflings, we grew up on them," Fíli supplied immediately, which earned him an approving nod of his younger brother and another sour expression from his Uncle.

"You aren't Dwarflings anymore and we aren't back in the safety of Ered Luin before a hearth to be telling stories," Thorin shook his head. "These are dangerous lands and—"

"And nothing lifts spirits and dispels gloom as well as an engaging tale," Balin interrupted, his eyes gleaming merrily in the firelight. "Besides, you are quite good at telling them, and don't try to argue," he added raising his hand as if to silence Thorin. "It was me who taught you, and I'm not too modest to say I did that well enough, after all."

Thorin regarded them all silently, looking quite sceptical, and when his eyes finally ended up on Bilbo, the expression on his face changed to almost comically pleading, as if he was begging the Hobbit to interfere and put a stop to this circus, to say that no one needed any stories right now, least of all from Thorin. Which proved to be a mistake on his part, because Bilbo's eyes acquired a fascinated glint Ori was familiar with – it appeared whenever there was a prospect of a new tale or a song or any piece of lore to be heard, genuine unhindered interest.

"That would indeed be a pleasure to hear," was Bilbo's response to the practically beseeching look on Thorin's face, a small smile with only the barest hint of teeth to support it with, and Thorin had to roll his eyes in silent capitulation, giving the Hobbit a glance of betrayal. It was really rather amusing to watch. Ori wondered what else he expected from Bilbo after he had been glowering and growling at him for the past couple of months without a single good cause whatsoever; revenge was certainly long overdue even if Bilbo hadn't really intended it that way.

"See, Uncle?" Fíli grinned, radiantly. "You've got a willing audience here."

"It's too early to hit the sack anyway, we've got to have some entertainment. You forbade songs and music, surely a story won't hurt anyone?" his brother added, making those innocently looking big pleading eyes, which should have stopped bringing people into submission when Kíli had said goodbye to childhood and yet for some reason hadn't.

"You're all being ridiculous," Thorin grumbled, shaking his head, but he sounded resigned to his fate all the same.

His nephews tended to do that to him. After all, crown princes or not, legitimate King under the Mountain or not, they were all Dwarves, and Dwarves loved a good tale and they loved their little ones. Granted, by now Thorin's little ones had already come of age, but he still wasn't quite immune to Kíli's puppy eyes and Fíli's grin, and perhaps never would be. When Thorin's gaze briefly darted to Bilbo, Ori got a suspicion that this time, there might just be another influence in addition to the whining and nagging of his nephews, strange as it was, for what felt like for the first time in a long while there was no real hostility in Thorin's eyes but a sort of slightly surprised amusement instead. 

"What would you like to hear, Master Baggins?" Thorin asked, making Bilbo give a start.

"Me?" The Hobbit's eyebrows shot up as he squirmed a little under the general attention now directed at him.

"Aye," Thorin nodded, "You are the one interested in collecting lore; the rest here have heard plenty of tales, I'd say it would only be fair if you had a choice in the matter."

"I…" Bilbo stuttered and then shrugged. "I'd be more than happy with any tale you choose to share. But, if I still may express a preference, I'd go for something with less blood and gore in it. You know, Hobbit children might end up reading it one day. You do have such, I hope?"

Somewhere behind them, Dwalin let out a snort which didn't need any commentary on it.

"Not all our tales are bloody, Master Hobbit," Thorin confirmed with the barest hint of a smile, his hands already reaching out for his pipe and a pouch of tobacco.

"Aye, but th' rest are lewd," Dwalin harrumphed brightly from where he was reclining against a large, gnarly tree root sticking out of the rocky ground, which earned him a unanimous cheer of approval.

"That's because you are only interested in those two kinds, brother," Balin deadpanned, shooting the warrior a knowing look of an older sibling, annoyed and fond in equal measures.

"Right, right, let his Majesty retain his decency and look all educated and noble here, as if he'd never in life yelled a rowdy song at the top of his lungs whilst being sloshed right beside me," Dwalin huffed, pleased with himself, and the amiable atmosphere around them burst into another fit of merry laughter.

Even Thorin was chuckling as he cleared the old ash from his pipe, and while for Ori this kind of exchange between his companions wasn't anything new – he had seen them do it lots and lots of times before, the amicable bickering which had always arose on long road trips – the Hobbit beside him had a wide-eyed look of surprise on his face, and perhaps rightly so. The others had their friendly brawls almost on a daily basis, so that shouldn't come as much of news for Bilbo, but seeing Thorin laugh the way he was now, openly and warmly, surely did. Somehow, their Hobbit had become such an inevitable part of their Company, at least as far as Ori was concerned, that it was sometimes hard to believe he hadn't known Bilbo for long and that Bilbo hadn't had a chance to know the rest of them anywhere near well enough, least of all Thorin, who had always been reserved and kept to himself even in a group of old friends, let alone strangers. But one could only keep reserved for so long, it seemed, and even Thorin had to lower his guard just a little from time to time. Ori was glad for it – after all, the Hobbit had more than earned their leader's cordiality, if nothing else.

"Well," Thorin finally said once his pipe was rid of the ash, his eyes fixed on it firmly. "Then let me tell you about how the most precious metal in the whole of Middle-Earth was found and mined."

And then he went on to tell of mithril, Khazad-dûm and Durin I, of former glory and marvellous creations made by Dwarven hands. The history of Moria wasn't the most cheerful one to narrate, but Thorin, mindful of Bilbo's request, expertly avoided the tragic and gory bits, focusing on the epic and glorious ones instead. He was a good story-teller, Ori had been aware of it ever since his childhood, when he had listened to the older Dwarf occasionally telling of Erebor and other tales of yore, snuggling by the hearth along with Fíli and Kíli and Glóin's wee lad, the youngest of them four. His voice flowed naturally, with a low rumble in it, his speech unhurried and with pauses in all the right places, making whatever story he wove for them sound almost enchanting, his pleasant timbre taking them all to some other lands, some distant and some which they had seen many a time and considered familiar, taking them on adventures along with heroes and warriors of old, or making them sigh and giggle at some Dwarven love story of how a valiant but low-born Dwarrow managed to win the heart of the most beautiful young Dwarrowdam, and of how they lived happily ever after.

Now wasn't any different, and after a while every single one of them, even Dwalin though he would never admit to that, was staring a little misty-eyed into space, carried away by Thorin's low-pitched, gently rolling voice. Once, Ori's gaze drifted from within himself and the pictures that were being painted by the narration and was drawn to the Hobbit by his side, the sight making him squint at the little fellow. Bilbo was staring back at Thorin as if he was seeing the Dwarf for the first time in his life, his eyes open wide and his jaw hanging just a little, all his attention fixed on one single person with a kind of self-absorbed, awed intensity. He hardly even blinked, the firelight reflecting in his dark eyes and giving an impression of them shining from within him, as if from the very depths of his soul.

The sight teased a small pleased smile out of Ori. Bilbo looked as if he was utterly enchanted with the tale and with Thorin himself, this version of Thorin he was finally given a chance to see, and, come to think of it, he perhaps had every right to be enchanted. What Bilbo had been gracious enough to share about his life in the Shire didn't imply many adventures, risky or unexpected undertakings or any sort of kings, warriors or heroes involved. It had been a measured, secure, comfortable existence, and here Bilbo was all of a sudden, right in the midst of an actual quest, surrounded by a bunch of rather ragged-looking but nonetheless fierce Dwarves, successful ending of which was still rather dubious, and, to add insult to injury, there was an actual Dwarven King sitting right opposite him, majestic and regal in every way, his eyes shining distantly in the flickering light of the fire and his Elvish blade resting within his reach; the Dwarven King who had deigned to exchange barely a few civil words with Bilbo so far. And yet, here he was all the same, telling them all a story of wonders of Khazad-dûm. 

To Ori and the rest of the Company, he was Thorin Oakenshield, their loved and respected leader, the Dwarf who had restored some semblance of normalcy for them and their kin, the rightful heir of the Throne under the Mountain, the friend and cousin and Uncle. To Bilbo, he must have looked like some legend come to life, a great and fierce warrior hero from tales of old, severe and kingly and distant, and yet, here he was at the same time, being very much real, made of flesh and blood rather than myth and stone, looking oddly mild and unguarded with his voice gentle and quiet drifting around them into the night. It surely was a nice reacquaintance with someone Bilbo must have come to regard as gloomy and harsh. The wide-eyed look of astonishment and captivation on Bilbo's face could very well be justified in such circumstances.

If Ori didn't know better, he could also say that it was the look of someone falling helplessly in love, hardly even being aware of it, and no one would blame the Hobbit for it should it be the case – Thorin was, for the lack of a better word, very much an eyeful. Then, when at some point Thorin's eyes, dark and intense, landed on Bilbo, the Hobbit lowered his own gaze so fast as if he had just been caught doing something utterly inappropriate rather than merely staring at a Dwarven King who was in the midst of narrating a rather captivating tale. Ori could see Bilbo's larynx bob nervously as he swallowed, his small hands clenched in his lap so tightly as if they were cramped, and the young Dwarf suddenly wondered whether he _did_ know better, after all, whether he was not witnessing something quite unexpected but nonetheless precious starting to bud right before his eyes and the eyes of every single one in the Company. He wondered whether the two main characters of the possibly unfolding affair were even remotely aware of what was taking place.

Across the fire from him, Ori caught Nori's eyes, his older brother definitely amused more by what he was seeing in front of himself rather than by the tale narrated by Thorin, his green eyes sparkling in a sly manner Ori knew all too well. The little, barely noticeable smirk, mostly concealed by the intricate braids adorning his moustache and beard, which Nori gave him only solidified Ori's suddenly arisen suspicions, and the next time he shifted his gaze to the Hobbit, the look on Bilbo's face did really seem to be that of a person slowly but surely losing his heart to someone. In fact, he was staring back at Thorin as if the latter had created mithril itself and then sprayed the liquid metal all over the sky to make stars light up in its cobalt depths.


	5. Nori

Dori had never been proud of his younger brother's polished skills at sleight of hand, guile and eavesdropping, even less so of his what felt like innate ability to spirit away somebody else's belongings and possessions, and many others who knew he dealt in that kind of thing openly despised him. Nori didn't particularly care – desperate times called for desperate measures, and his dubious talents had oftentimes kept the family fed and warm, and that was the most important thing. He hadn't been particularly proud of those talents in the beginning, either, but the thing was, they had often kept him alive, his ability to gain and trade secrets making him as many friends as there were enemies, so those skills of his had to account for something. They were one of the reasons he was on this Quest, what with Thorin being well-aware of his talents and having used them to his own advantage without too many pangs of conscience. Nori knew things, and that made him valuable; in what way he had come to learn them was beside the point.

That said, every single one of the Company was valuable in terms of knowing things, it was just that the manner of finding them out was different for each of the Dwarves. Balin knew because he was old and well-read and thus wise; Bofur because he could chat the hind leg off a donkey and because he was oddly sensitive to the moods of others for a rattle-box like him; Bifur couldn't chat all that much in comparison with his cousin but he had mastered the ability of watching people, his hawk-eyed stare almost disconcerting at times, and oh, he tended to give Nori plenty of those, well aware of his dubious talents and inclinations; Ori knew things because he read a lot and was too shy to waste time on banter and also observed instead, which allowed him plenty of time to mull things over and make his own conclusions.

What Nori knew about Thorin, though, didn't come from applying his enviable talents of eavesdropping or stalking anyone – there was no need for eavesdropping when nothing was being said and for stalking when no one was going to sneak anywhere in secrecy. Nori knew because he had felt the same things once; knew the longing which more and more often appeared in their leader's eyes all too intimately; knew the confronting feeling of anger and desire which tore at his heart at the same time; knew the deep sorrow of forbidden romance. That said, in Thorin's case, he didn't quite believe that the love – if that was indeed what it was – was quite forbidden, but rather unexpected and unsuspected on both sides instead.

As far as secrets went, Nori wasn't only good at finding them out them but also keeping his own, so very few were aware of certain things in his biography, things he guarded more fiercely than any piece of information he had ever managed to scavenge. Back in the day when he was but a young and inexperienced Dwarf, he had been unfortunate enough to fall in love with one not of his race and certainly above his status, a young maiden from a village of Men his people were working in as smiths and toymakers and tailors, a ragged band of unwashed and poorly fed Dwarves, taking pretty much any sort of work they could find. It would be years and years later when Nori and his family would manage to make both ends meet, thanks to his illegal trade and Dori's honest one, and back then he had been no one other but a wretched stranger who had nothing in the world but his two siblings to rely on and care about, and fate had indeed been cruel to him to make him fall helplessly for a young Woman, the only daughter of the Head of the settlement they were currently in, not particularly wealthy but definitely well above the ranks of Nori and his kind.

Besides, he was a Dwarf, which had never been particularly advantageous as far as courting anyone but a Dwarrowdam was concerned, although, of course, there had always been all possible instances of interracial love affairs since the dawn of times, though, few of them happy. Nori had been pretty certain that his case wasn't going to become one of the lucky exceptions – even if his people hadn't been scorned upon, there had still been the matter of their very different social status, which would have doomed their marriage anyway. Asta had been a pretty thing, fiery hair and green eyes, just like Nori's own, full of bosom and hips yet thin of waist, witty and merry and possessing a rather dry sense of humour cultivated by the life which had never been too simple even for the beloved daughter of the Master of the village, and she had charmed Nori, as simple as that. She used to pass by his workshop every morning, singing little jolly songs in her sweet tinkling voice, and Nori, smile by smile and word by word which followed the initial smiles, had found himself so deeply in love he could barely survive a day until yet another morning came and brought along yet another song and a chat and a grin.

He had resisted himself vehemently, persuading himself that this was folly, that she would never accept him as a suitor, or even if she did, no one else would accept the two of them together; in the best-case scenario, she would be banished from her home and the two of them would be doomed to a miserable life on the road, rambling around together, a young Dwarf and a young Woman, and while Nori had been used to such an unattractive lifestyle, that would be the death of Asta most certainly. Nori could scarcely provide for his brothers and himself, Ori being barely a toddler back then, and he couldn't – and wouldn't – drag the One he loved into the poverty-stricken life they were leading.

So, true to his decision, he hadn't; no words had been said and no confessions or proposals made, and before long – because Men grew up and aged so awfully fast – there had been a feast in the village to celebrate the beloved daughter of the Master being married to some well-off Man from the neighbouring settlement, a marriage of convenience rather than love, Nori had been certain. Worse, he had been the one commissioned to craft the rings for the couple, and he had, putting his heart and his soul into the one she would wear for the rest of her life. And then he had seen her wed, tears standing in her bright green eyes which, to the Dwarf's bitter surprise, had been directed his way rather than her new husband's, a silent question mixed with accusation and sorrow in them so blatant Nori could barely withstand it, suddenly realising that he might have been mistaken all along and knowing he had realised it way too late, unforgivably too late, and there was nothing at all to be done about it anymore.

He had left the village before the feast was over and the newlyweds were closeted in their private chambers; left taking nothing but his instruments of trade and his numerous weapons, left without looking back even once, running away like the coward he had been for so long. 

He had wished then and he still wished he had been able to help what he felt, to control it somehow, to have been able to put a stop to his feelings, but it didn't work quite like that with Dwarves, he had known it then and he knew it still. Love couldn't be helped, a blessing for some and a curse for others. And then he also wished he had been wiser and braver to act on what he wanted before it was too late, but that, too, couldn't be helped and past couldn't be changed by one's whim. His only consolation – a dubious kind of it if ever a consolation at all – was that Men weren't like Dwarves, they could love more than once, at least they claimed they did, so he hoped that Asta, too, had come to love her legitimate husband in her own time, and that she had lived her life happily, preserving the mischievous spark in her eyes and the tinkling in her laughter. And now, after such a long time, she would have been dead, anyway, but her memory still lived on, and would do so for as long as Nori breathed, making his heart bleed a little more every time he had to look at his own reflection, seeing the eyes and hair the same colour and shade as she had once had.

That was how he was able to recognise the emotion in Thorin's eyes every time their leader gave their burglar a steady glare – he was all too familiar with this game of staring, and with the unquenchable longing it evoked. Thorin's reasons and motives were most certainly different from those of Nori, just as the two of them were different – back in the day, Nori had been too young and inexperienced to act on what he desired, his main stumbling block being their different races and their different status. Thorin was more than a century older now than Nori had been back then, certainly more mature to be able to understand what was going on, consider it and make his own choices, and he had plenty of other things to weigh on his mind apart from Bilbo being but a mere Hobbit and Thorin being a legitimate King under the Mountain. There was obviously the matter of the Mountain itself, of their Quest, of the dangers involved, of the uncertainty which the future held, of the fact that it was the Halfling who was to enter the Mountain should they ever reach it, then possibly face the dragon on his own and perish there. This was what Bilbo had been hired for, after all, and the success of the Quest depended on how well he would be able to perform his job. It was understandable that Thorin falling in love with his own burglar would complicate things no matter if his feelings were returned or not just as it was understandable that Thorin would want to resist it with all his might.

Nori understood all that – after all, many Dwarves consciously tended to choose their Craft over love, preferring to remain unmarried until the end of their days to be able to commit themselves to their calling body and heart and soul, and as far as Thorin was concerned, he was one of the most – if not by far the most – dedicated of Dwarves Nori had ever met, his people, his kingdom and now his Quest for the Mountain having always been his top priorities. And yet he still wished to clobber Thorin on the head, King or not, and yell at him not to waste the precious time now that it was obviously becoming too late to prevent the feeling which was so obvious in Thorin's eyes from blooming into life; wanted to yell at him because Thorin obviously didn't know how much losing one's love hurt, no matter if words of love had or had never been spoken out loud; wanted to yell at him to make him understand what was happening; yell at him to tell him that it didn't have to be doomed and forbidden and whatever else Thorin might be thinking of it.

He didn't, of course, and just watched Thorin watch the Halfling, his deep-set blue eyes puzzled at times, amused at others, and then angry all of a sudden; yearning now and bitter a moment later; watched Thorin shift his gaze from Bilbo to some unseen point on the horizon in the east, his fists clenching and unclenching as if he was struggling with his own self; watched agitation twist Thorin's face as he risked his life jumping down onto the narrow ledge with a sheer drop of many thousand feet below him to rescue Bilbo from certain death as the Hobbit dangled above the abyss, and then watched him spit out his anger and fear at the poor sod, knowing as he watched it that Thorin was more staggered by the prospects of the Halfling's death than he wished to admit; watched Thorin resentful glare as Bilbo was making his way out of the cave to sneak back to Rivendell just before all of them were captured by goblins, a weird, contradictory mixture of relief and spite on his face, and Nori could understand that, too; watched Thorin as he all but begged Bilbo to explain why he had come back to them after their escape from the Goblin caves, his voice unusually raw and almost on the verge of quivering, as if he couldn't puzzle the Hobbit out, as if he hoped for something which he dreaded with as much intensity, as if he was torn between just dragging Bilbo into his arms and kicking his scrawny arse all the way back to Rivendell for his stubborn intention to stick with the Company.

Thorin was a twisted knot of contradictions, denial and desires, most certainly barely able to fully comprehend what in the world was going on, but it was always easier to notice when one had perspective and experience, and Nori had both and saw it all; the smile in Bilbo's voice and the warmth in his eyes as he talked of their lost home, his words addressed to the whole Company but his gaze being reserved solely for Thorin, just like the smile and warmth it was saturated with. Nori could swear he almost saw something in Thorin snap then, like the first crack in the coat of ice on a lake when the thaw came, as he stood there with blood and dirt on his face and his eyes cast down almost demurely. The next time they were directed at their resident burglar, the slow, reluctant, realisation in them was nearly palpable.

And then on top of Carrock, after what Bilbo had pulled off, risking his silly little behind to save one single Dwarf that meant so much to his people, Nori was really on the brink of just going and pushing the Hobbit right into Thorin's arms if the latter didn't know what was good for him. Nori wasn't a smooth-tongued wise old Dwarf like Balin or a straightforward kind like Dwalin, nor was he gentle and sensitive like his own little brother, so he wouldn't be the one to go to Thorin and _talk_ to make him see. If he had to accomplish the latter, he would have to resort to some other, much less dignified, means. Luckily for everyone, though, this time around Thorin finally did seem to understand, and it was a small joy to see everything falling into place where it was supposed to be: Bilbo – into Thorin's embrace, Thorin utterly and irrevocably in love with their Hobbit if the vice grip of his arms around Bilbo could serve as any indication at all.

This was none of Nori's business, of course, but he had been trading in what wasn't his business for decades upon decades, so he was willing to keep an eye and make sure those two didn't have to suffer the heartache of being too cowardly, too hesitant and too doubtful when it could and should be avoided at all costs, he knew it better than anyone. Fortunately for him, he wasn't the only member of the Company who had noticed the unfolding affair, and quite soon everyone, the wizard included, innocently tweaked with the matters now and again so that their obstinate grumpy leader and his sweet little burglar ended up in each other's company more often than they otherwise might without some help from without. It was, admittedly, a little unfair to the rest of them since they had come to enjoy the Hobbit's presence quite a lot, even Dwalin did, loving Bilbo's merry feast-time songs and his wry sense of humour, but when matters of the heart arose, it was way safer for everyone not to interfere much and just let them run their own course instead.


	6. Bilbo

It was a steep climb down from the rocky pinnacle the Eagles had left them on, the ancient stairs half-eroded with the steps almost glossy-smooth and slippery in some places and crumbling to jutting pieces of rock in others. Gandalf was leading the way, using his staff to assess the damage to the stairs and where it was safe enough to step on, and Bilbo was glad for it – it was immensely reassuring to have the wizard back with them again. Thorin was the second in their procession, with Bilbo walking after him, and then Dori and the rest of the Dwarves trailed cautiously and wearily behind.

The descent was arduous and demanded constant attention, and Bilbo was finding his slipping relentlessly away time and time again. It wasn't that big a surprise, though, considering he hadn't had a chance to close his eyes for what seemed like a whole week, even though it must have only been around a couple of days or so, nor had he had a morsel of food in his mouth in all of that time. The Dwarves looked haggard and quite a lot worse for wear than they had been upon their departure from Rivendell, too, but they had to be much more used to situations like this, Bilbo reckoned, because they trudged on their way down carefully and doggedly despite whatever aches and pains they must be nursing, and there had to be a few after their near-death encounter first with the goblins and then the orcs.

He did his best to do the same, go down stoically and with as much caution as he could muster, but it was becoming clear that he was on his last legs as his store of stamina was starting to run dry. The nasty pounding in his ears and the tendrils of the quickening headache shooting through his temples in combination with the throbbing in his ankle and his empty stomach made it very hard for him to pay attention to where he was putting his feet, but Bilbo willed himself to try harder and stay alert – after all, it would be utterly embarrassing and more than a little stupid to have come as far as this, to have fought orcs and trolls and whatnot, to have been miraculously rescued by the Eagles only for him to trip over his weary feet and come tumbling down this cliff to meet his death at the jagged rocks at the foot of it. Neither a Took nor a Baggins would approve of such unfathomable foolishness.

So he focused his gaze on Thorin's back and the dishevelled and partly bloodied mane of his hair in front of him, trying to take courage from the way the King was holding himself. It was nothing but a miracle, in Bilbo's humble opinion, that he was still breathing, let alone being able to walk. He knew, of course, and had in fact had an opportunity to see for himself that Dwarves were made of tougher and sturdier stuff than all the rest of the peoples in Middle-Earth. Even so, the blow Thorin had taken from Azog and the tossing from his warg had looked horrific enough, and judging by the way he was limping and occasionally wincing, it hadn't left him in the greatest of states, either. He was still walking, though, stubbornly, so Bilbo decided that he had to pull himself together and follow his example, and try not to cause more trouble where none was due. It wouldn't be appreciated by anyone, least of all by Thorin, he was certain of that much.

As they descended, he had enough time on his hands to reflect on what he had done, though where his courage and recklessness had come from to actually draw him out of his hiding place in that pine and make him lunge at the arguably the most ferocious of orcs in this part of the world, he still had no idea about. Thorin and the rest of the Company, perhaps, with the exception of Gandalf who seemed to have a fool's hope and an inexplicable belief in him, were right to assume he was not made for such adventures. Once he had come of age, he had never been known to be a foolhardy Hobbit; yes, there was Took blood running in his veins but, up to this moment, all it had done was made him find all sorts of trouble Hobbit kids were prone to getting themselves into at that age and then perhaps made him a bit fonder of tales about dragons and other monsters than most of his peers. Other than that, the Took blood seemed to give way to the reasonable streak of Baggins, making him an utterly respectable and perfectly sedate Hobbit worth his name. Ever since the start of this improbable journey, he had been missing home and his feather bed and the warm fire and the comforts that came with it, missing it desperately, the ache in his heart only intensified further by the way Thorin tended to glare at him most of the time. He thought Bilbo was a burden and the Hobbit himself had nothing to say in his defence because he really was, too mellow and careful and fond of comfort and loathing any kind of violence.

Understandable though it might have been, Thorin's attitude still hurt, as did his harsh words, which made Bilbo long for his home even more desperately, a home away from Dwarves and their moods and their manners, away from orcs, goblins, and all other odd and frightful creatures which inhabited the world beyond the peaceful green hills of the Shire. Still, the look of sheer astonishment that had crossed Thorin's face when Bilbo had strutted from behind a pine tree right as rain had surely been worth the trouble of sticking with the Company even when Gandalf himself seemed to have given up all hope of ever seeing him again. And yes, Bilbo had told them the truth about why he was still here – because he really wanted to help. Over the past couple of months on the road, he had somehow, imperceptibly, grown accustomed to and even fond of the Dwarves and their severe leader, their tale of woe finding its way to his heart. His encounter with the slick pale creature under the Misty Mountains – Gollum, Bilbo had dubbed him – had strengthened his resolve significantly. After all, he had managed to survive that plight on his own, thanks to his wits and a bit of luck, which had given him courage he had been lacking so direly before that. Besides, now he had this magic ring, and it might prove to be exceptionally useful in keeping himself and the rest of the Company alive in tight places like this.

That was all well and good, of course, but it still didn't quite manage to explain what in the world had possessed him when he had dashed to Thorin's side to stand between the fallen Dwarf and that horrid Pale Orc. All he had been aware of at the moment was that Thorin couldn't die a death like that, it wasn't proper for a King, and even though the King was short of his crown and his kingdom and most of his people, Thorin still had that regal, noble air around him which even his scowls and glares couldn't quite dispel. He couldn't die there on the slopes of the Misty Mountains amongst the burning pines surrounded by howling wargs and chortling orcs before he even had a chance to reach his coveted Erebor. After that, Bilbo had barely thought about anything at all, driven by some streak of Tookish insanity integrated deep into his very bones, it seemed.

And by something else, too, which Bilbo had only come to realise in retrospect, after first being yelled at by Thorin for all his troubles and then, improbably, being drawn into an embrace so tight and so warm and so sincere he couldn't quite pull in a proper breath for a while, gasping against the matted fur of Thorin's coat's collar instead. The controversial mixture of emotions evoked by the Dwarf's words had hurt so profoundly that for a moment it had felt like it would be easier to take a step back and just tumble down this dratted cliff than withstand the accusation and anger in his eyes and his tone, and then the next moment relief and warmth and gratitude Bilbo had heard in that rumbling voice and saw in Thorin's face had suddenly left him powerless and breathless and more than a little perturbed, but all of it in a good way. And then he felt those arms almost crushing him against the rock-solid body and found his mouth and nose and eyes full of fur which stank of sweat and smoke and blood and so many other things Bilbo didn't quite want to know about. The mixture of scents should have been revolting, by all means, but he had found himself inhaling it in ragged, gulping breaths as if it had been an elixir of life which could prevent his world from shuttering into pieces as it had been about to do just a moment before.

He hadn't even realised he had needed a hug that much, the feeling of being this close to someone so overwhelming if felt more like a punch in his gut than an actual embrace. Now that Bilbo thought of it, it had been an improbably long while since he had last been in such proximity to another person, and as to being intimate… All of a sudden, there was a question in Bilbo's head forming there all by its own will, a question utterly unrelated to his current predicament as it might seem at first, a question as to what in the world he had been doing with his life back in the Shire. All of a sudden, the memories he had of his life there didn't seem all that vivid and full of joy but rather bleak and dull. Instead, Thorin's unexpected, blood-stinking, bone-crushing, less than careful, embrace had seemed to throw him back into real life, none too gently at that, into a life which was full of perils and aches and bruises and uncomfortable bedding places, of cold nights and hungry mornings, but for all that, a life which was somehow more real and bright than what he had led back in the Shire. A life which had a purpose in it and someone to share it with as opposed to a comfortable, safe, sated existence with nothing in it to cling to and no one to even exchange a few words with before falling asleep.

That rough embrace Thorin had given him had felt like a refreshing slap in the face, opening his eyes to everything that was around him, the magnificent beauty of the nature, the little comforts of a hot supper and a warm fire, the sheer vitality of being alive, the company of perhaps too stubborn and wilful and less than particularly courteous Dwarves who were at the same time the bravest, most loyal and determined people he had ever met.

And then his eyes fixed on Thorin's back again, broad shoulders and iron-toed boots and too much fur all around, his raven-black, tangled hair with a few strands of grey already visible in it, the hilt of his Elvish blade strapped to his back, the skin of his hands bruised and bloodied, and suddenly, Bilbo felt something in him soften to the sight as he realised it had become strangely familiar, almost _dearly_ familiar, to him over the past couple of months. As he looked at Thorin stoically going down the stairs in front of him, Bilbo knew with a sudden and overwhelming clarity that he would risk his life to save him all over again if push came to shove. The realisation, unexpected and staggering, was what made his toes trip over a jutting rock and he stumbled forward with a gasp of pain. Before he even had a chance to get scared out of his mind by the prospects of falling off these darned stairs, a heavy hand of Dori clumped on his shoulder, keeping him where he was.

"Steady there, Master Burglar," the Dwarf's voice drifted from behind him and reached him through the rush of blood in his ears. "We've grown too fond of you to lose you all over again, especially when there's no call for it at all."

In front of him, Thorin turned around in a whirl of fur and hair, his blue eyes looking from his bloodied face and fixing on Bilbo, and the Hobbit braced himself for yet another telling-off which would inevitably come. It always did, after all. He swallowed thickly, his heart still pounding too wildly in his chest, from the fright of his stumble, from the anticipation of another glare directed his way and not in the least from his recent revelation. To his surprise, though, Thorin's eyes looked more concerned than anything else and his hand that ended up on his other shoulder as if to steady him, too, was oddly careful.

"Are you--"

"I'm fine," Bilbo blurted hastily, not wishing to be the subject of either annoyance or too much worry. He could damn well go down this pinnacle on his own without being either yelled at or helped or whatnot. "Just tripped over something, I'll be more careful I promise."

Thorin frowned at him, their eyes for once in a lifetime at the same level as Bilbo was standing a few steps above, Thorin's oh so deeply, richly blue Bilbo was finding it rather tricky not to drown in them just then. But there was no displeasure in his look, which had long become familiar, and quite a lot of unexpected genuine concern instead. As if somehow spurred into action under that blue-eyed scrutiny, Bilbo's heart started to pound even more heavily in his chest.

"We'll make camp once we reach the foot of this hill and find a suitable spot," Thorin promised, voice sounding weirdly soft. "Hold on for a little while longer, Master Baggins."

Bilbo only nodded, suddenly lost for words as if all of them had been surprised right out of his head by Thorin's unexpected civility.

"I suggest you walk in front of me," the King went on. "That should be safer."

"Thorin, I'm--" Bilbo started, wishing to sound as if he really were fine and able to negotiate the stairs on his own so as not to seem a burden, something he had been accused of way too much for his liking, but Thorin silenced him with one glance of his, the one he tended to have when he gave a command rather than asked. It was still mild but there was steel in those blue eyes of his which for some reason Bilbo found very difficult to draw his own gaze away from.

So he nodded again, not wishing to argue, especially given the fact that Thorin was right – it felt much safer to be walking between Gandalf and him. He trusted the wizard the most, and now that for once in a lifetime Thorin himself seemed to take the matter of Bilbo's safety as his personal concern, it was only logical to stick to the two of them. However, as he moved without further protest to obediently step around Thorin on the side of the sheer drop, he was met with the King's gauntleted arm blocking his way.

"Not this side," Thorin shook his head with what might be the barest hint of a smile.

It made Bilbo think that one of them surely must have hit his head against a rock as both he and Thorin weren't behaving quite as they should. In the world that Bilbo had become familiar with over the past couple of months, Hobbits didn't go attacking orc leaders to save Dwarven Kings and Thorin certainly didn't smirk at him with what looked very much like good humour.

"You seem to be strangely reckless with your life today, Master Baggins."

Before Bilbo had managed to come up with anything at all to answer to that, a heavy hand on his shoulder directed him along the face of the cliff, with Thorin's sturdy figure placed between him and the drop, and it only left it once Bilbo was safely on the steps in front of him but not before squeezing on it for a long moment. When the weight and the warmth of Thorin's palm were gone, Bilbo could still feel its owner's eyes boring into his back all the same. He could also swear that he detected a merry glint of the wizard's eyes in the shade beneath his hat as Gandalf, who hadn't uttered a single word yet, turned away from them to lead their descent once more.


	7. Óin

"What in the world were you planning to do running out there with this butter knife of yours?" Óin chastised the Hobbit as he cleaned the cuts on Bilbo's palms and knuckles.

Most of the scratches and bruises must have come from the Goblin caves and wherever else the Hobbit had been lost and wandering on his own before he had reunited with them all on the other side of the Misty Mountains. Apart from a few other bruises here and there and the swollen ankle which had made him limp through the most part of their descent from where the Eagles had left them, the Hobbit was, incredibly, quite alright. 

"To die?" Bilbo replied, his voice even in an oddly listless manner which made the healer jerk his head up to look at him.

Óin's mouth was already open as he was about to give the Hobbit a piece of his mind about such jokes, but it closed before he had a chance to utter a single syllable once he had seen the quiet determination in the grim line of Bilbo's lips. There was a smile on his face, but it was a wry and bitter thing. Instead, Óin looked back at their burglar hard, trying to wrap his mind around what he had said and wondering if the little fellow might still be in shock by any chance. He couldn't really have been ready to die for Thorin, could he? It surely wasn't in Halflings' nature to commit any kind of heroic deeds, and yet…

"Well, I hadn't been warned that Gandalf was planning an escape mission by means of those Eagles, what else was I supposed to do?" Bilbo asked raising his eyebrows, sounding a bit defiant as if the healer was going to tell him off for what he had done.

"To stay as far away from danger as possible."

Both Óin and the Hobbit turned their heads to where the voice of their leader had come from. It sounded severe – nothing new given that it was Thorin, he sounded severe in most situations – but the old Dwarf noticed a rather remarkable thing in the King's face, something he hadn't seen there for years and years on end. Bilbo might not be able to recognise it because he hadn't known Thorin for long, hadn't been there when Thorin had been much quicker to laugh and fool around chasing his younger siblings through the tunnels and passages of the Lonely Mountain, his blue eyes the colour of October evening sky sparkling, unclouded by the pain of too many losses and humiliation which had followed later; when the lines which marked his face these days hadn't existed yet, lines which had been put there by endless worries, bitter memories and hard labour. Óin had been almost certain that the Thorin he had known so many years ago, before the destruction of Erebor, had long been dead, and yet the flicker of something he could see in his eyes now made him wonder. There was a certain softness in the line of his lips and around his eyes as he looked down at Bilbo, a brief glimpse of something in his gaze which, improbably, resembled vulnerability, something so old and long-lost that it seemed to be utterly novel. Óin was old, too, however, so he recognised it well enough.

"And do what? Let you die?" Meanwhile, the Hobbit pointed out dryly, one of his eyebrows still raised as if he was asking Thorin whether the Dwarf was even being serious. "I thought we were all going to be either torn to pieces by those beasts or slaughtered by orcs, so I reckoned I might as well be useful and die whilst trying to help at least, futile though it seemed."

With a sigh which was followed by a grimace of pain, Thorin rose to his feet from the crag of bedrock he was resting on a little way away from them and came to sit down beside Bilbo instead. Even without his massive coat, dressed only in his tunic, pants and boots, Thorin still towered over the Hobbit, looking so much sturdier, leaner and tougher than Bilbo that it made the latter's last remark sound almost absurd. It might have hadn't it been for the fact that both of them had nearly lost their lives out there, Thorin almost done in by Azog and Bilbo while trying to protect him. Óin didn't smile because in the end the Hobbit's sudden interjection was what had saved their King from being beheaded, implausible as it sounded.

"Give me your hand, Master Baggins," Thorin asked softly, offering Bilbo his own, palm up.

Bilbo looked down at it for a few moments, uncertainly, as if he weren't sure Thorin wasn't making fun of him. Then, cautiously, he obliged, placing his hand onto Thorin's. The latter spent a while looking thoughtfully at their digits, the contrast between his large, scarred and callused, hand and Bilbo's smaller and still rather soft looking one, even despite the recently received cuts and scratches, was stark.

"I thank you for what you did," Thorin finally said, voice unusually mild, as Óin watched him slip his fingers through Bilbo's in one smooth motion, mindful of the bruises on the Hobbit's skin. "It was a valiant deed, even if a foolhardy one. I owe you my life and, rest assured, I will not forget the debt."

Dropping his eyes, Bilbo almost squirmed, looking somewhat uncomfortable, either from Thorin speaking to him this way or from Thorin apparently not intending to let go of his hand. Óin smirked to himself, internally, thinking that the Hobbit surely had the right to be more than a bit taken aback by their leader's behaviour – after all, over the past couple of months all he had seen from Thorin were his – mostly utterly undeserved, in Óin's opinion – reproofs and grouches, and now he had been enveloped into Thorin's arms, thanked and praised by him all in the course of one day. Óin was glad Thorin had managed to get his head out of his hairy arse, though, because Bilbo had indeed proven to be a valuable asset to their Company and surely deserved some credit, now more than ever. Thorin's bitter personality and his lack of trust were not the Hobbit's fault, after all.

"I only did what I felt was right," Bilbo shrugged at last, a small reserved smile tugging at one corner of his mouth as if he was begging pardon for saving a Dwarven King.

"You have fine hands, Master Baggins," Thorin murmured by way of response, his expression softening even further into something astonishingly resembling gentleness, "which weren't made for battles and slaughtering orcs. You were hired to smuggle a stone out of the treasury in Erebor, not to die for a King that isn't even yours to die for, so keep those delicate hands and quiet feet of yours intact for as long as possible, don't risk them again so recklessly."

"Right, so in the end the dragon could have the chance to rip them off my body in person, I get your point," Bilbo replied just as quietly, with another strained smile.

He sounded humorous, if anything, but it was obvious that the prospect made him unnerved, which couldn't really be put against him. What was more, though, the mentioned prospect seemed to be making Thorin unnerved as well, his frown deepening into a grimace of… Óin wondered what that flicker that he saw in the King's eyes was before he lowered them to Bilbo's small hand in his. Then he slowly covered it with his other one, carefully so as not to hurt him, and just sat there silently for a while, cradling Bilbo's hand in both of his. And suddenly, Óin wished he was looking elsewhere or, even better, _was_ elsewhere because somehow there was too much intimacy in this little gesture. He wondered whether either of the two actually understood it for what it was, with Bilbo staring at their joint hands as if they had suddenly acquired a life of their own and with Thorin lost in thought looking into space with the expression of fierce protectiveness on his face, but Óin himself had lived enough moons to interpret what he saw in his own way.

"It won't happen that way, Bilbo," Thorin said at last, quietly, and shook his head with resolve.

"Can you really guarantee that?" the Hobbit asked softly, and when Thorin looked at him with a pained expression on his face, he smiled, almost reassuringly. "It's alright, it was my choice to embark on this insane mission with you. I promised I will help you, and I'll stand by it and we'll see what happens."

"Now there, Your Majesty," Óin finally grunted, interrupting the two for the first time in the past five minutes or so, because he had a suspicion that if he didn't remind Thorin that he was not, in fact, alone with the Hobbit here, he might attempt to do something which would surely fluster their poor burglar completely, judging by the way he couldn't tear his eyes off the Hobbit and their joint hands. Óin didn't really mind, but something about the strained line of Bilbo's shoulders and the expression of mild horror in his large eyes told the healer the Hobbit might be traumatised by such a turn of events right now. After all, he had had quite a lot on his plate over the past couple of days, he was unlikely to take another surprise well should it come out of the blue right now. "Don't you terrorise my patient, he's had enough of that for one day to be listening about dragons and some such at the end of it."

It didn't even matter that it wasn't Thorin who had raised the topic in the first place.

The King startled and gave Óin a somewhat confused and questioning look, as if just remembering the healer was there with the two of them as well, and Óin raised his eyebrow, hoping it looked expressive enough for Thorin to get the idea.

"Right, I shouldn't be distracting you from your job," Thorin said with a small smile, which looked suspiciously wistful, and rose to his feet, finally letting go of Bilbo's hand. It was a very slow movement, though, as if done reluctantly, and then Thorin was gone.

The way the Hobbit flexed his fingers ever so lightly didn't escape the healer's attention, either – he might be one ear deaf, but his eyes were fine and his wits were still by him.

_We might be getting ourselves into a sweet little mess here_ , he mused to himself as he went back to treating Bilbo's wounds. His small fine hands shook minutely as he let Óin take them into a much less intimate hold of a medical practitioner. Óin was surprised, aye, but also pleased because Thorin had long been unhealthily lonely and gloomy, and the petite Hobbit sitting in front of him right now was the first person, with the exception of Thorin's two rascals of nephews, who had somehow unheedingly managed to evoke and elicit more gentleness in their morose leader than Óin had seen in him in decades.

The healer couldn't help an amused huff for the life of him, though, as he started to bandage one of Bilbo's hands to prevent dirt from getting through the abraded skin into the cuts on his palm.

"What's so funny?" Bilbo asked, still sounding a little dazed. Óin couldn't blame him for it.

"That's been more smiles over the past five minutes than I've seen from him over the past few weeks, lad," Óin remarked casually.

"It is a bit unsettling not to have him scowling and glaring at me all the time, though," Bilbo muttered, an odd mixture between amused and uncomfortable. "I was starting to believe that was his normal state, and here we are."

"Aye, sadly, you might be on to something there," Óin sighed. "But Thorin's not that bad, not really. When you get to know him better, that is. Insufferably headstrong at times – yes; distrustful most of the time – yes; way too blunt when situations need subtlety – yes, but he's more than all that, Bilbo, as I'm sure you'll have a chance to find out for yourself. Give him a little more time and he'll show you the more tender side of his character. You might find he's not that disagreeable, after all."

When the very tips of Bilbo's ears suddenly acquired a rather pretty shade of crimson noticeable even in the firelight, the healer had to smother another smirk into his long beard.

_A sweet little mess, indeed,_ he thought again, and the question as to why in the world Bilbo had risked his life to save Thorin's stopped seeming all that baffling. It was amusing how sometimes two people had to be shaken to their core to be able to see past the blinds on their eyes, and he only wondered when the two of them would wrap their own heads around what each of them had realised in that moment of terror when Bilbo had leapt out to shield Thorin with his own small body.

Well, they still had some time to figure that out, and Óin would sure enjoy the evolving liaison to his heart's content. Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, of all people, and the Hobbit of the Shire, for Maker's sake. Óin huffed again.


	8. Dori

"The Hobbit's going to catch his death of cold in such a weather," Dori muttered under his breath to no one in particular as he unpacked what meagre remains of supplies he had left in his backpack after being searched and battered by goblins, barely escaping orcs and then a less than pleasant journey on the back of a gigantic Eagle.

It had been pouring for the entirety of the afternoon and well into the evening, leaving them all drenched to the bone. What made things worse was that it wasn't mid-June anymore but fast approaching August, with nights turning rather cool even after a pleasantly warm day, and the deluge that had caught them today gave the evening chill a whole new level of nastiness. Bilbo – for after the Hobbit had done the most stupid and honourable thing trying to stand between the Defiler and Thorin and had somehow succeeded in it, too, Dori had started to refer to him by his name rather than by a rather formal _'Master Baggins'_ – seemed to have endured the ordeal of trudging over wet rocks and slippery gnarled roots stoically enough, which was really quite admirable, but the Dwarf knew he was most certainly depleted of the remains of the sheer stubbornness he had been running on the whole day.

Accustomed to watching over his younger brothers, Ori in particular, with whom he had significant age difference and who and had always been a rather timid and sensitive lad, Dori's keen eyes noticed a lot of things about Bilbo no matter how hard the Hobbit was trying to conceal them. His clothes were way too thin and rather shabby by now to offer him enough protection from the downpour and the wind, which left him shivering miserably in its gusts. His hands must be frozen as he frequently puffed breath on them in what looked like a rather futile attempt to get some warmth into his digits. He was also limping, favouring his left foot, an injury he must have got either when that orc had thrown him off or perhaps even before that, in the Goblin caves under the Misty Mountains. The limp had become better over the past couple of days, but it was obvious the ankle still bothered him, especially after a whole day of trudging in the mud. Besides, they hadn't had a crumb of food to eat since the early morning, unwilling to stop so as to put as much distance between themselves and the orc pack that had caught them unawares and trying to make as much progress as possible while they had daylight. If Dori was feeling the dull sucking hunger, which was unpleasant but bearable, Bilbo was surely suffering – Hobbits were an unexpectedly voracious folk, what with their second breakfasts, elevensies and Mahal only knew what else.

That said, though, despite all the troubles, aches and hunger, Bilbo had kept on walking alongside the rest, silent most of the day, his lips pressed into a thin line of determination. That was… admirable, yes, but even more so given the fact that the Hobbit did not really have to be here with them and share in all the suffering at all. He could have left many times, in Bree at the very start of their journey, in Rivendell, even back there when he had escaped from the Goblin caves – he had been about to turn back and leave just before they had been caught, after all. Yet, somehow, defying all common sense, Bilbo had stuck with them, also managing to save the King in the process by nearly getting himself killed.

This Hobbit of theirs, all things considered, turned out to be a fine little fellow full of surprises, and Dori wondered what other unexpected discoveries lurked beneath his amiable smiles, gentle manners and well-spoken words.

Presently, Bilbo was crouching against an overhanging boulder doing his best to hide from the rain which, by some higher mercy which wasn't Gandalf's, had finally started to cease, leaving only a fine drizzle in its stead. Fíli and Kíli were doing their best with the sodden wood they had managed to scavenge, but Dori was pretty certain the fire wouldn't be started any time soon, not the proper kind of it anyway, and Bilbo looked like he was in dire need of something warm. In fact, he looked alarmingly like he was going to pass out any moment if he wasn't fed and wrapped into something dry. That was why Dori was rummaging through his sack, trying to find a spare tunic or a quilt or pretty much anything else to keep the Hobbit from the cold and the rain until the fire was ready.

He didn't have the chance, though, being outthought by, of all people, Thorin. When he lifted his eyes next time to give Bilbo a worried glance, he saw the Dwarf making a beeline towards the Hobbit, already shrugging out of his heavy coat. The next moment it ended up being draped over Bilbo's shoulders, with Thorin on one knee before the burglar as he made an effort to wrap it around him snugly enough. Bilbo gave a start, lifting his eyes to look up at whoever had bestowed such a luxury on him, and they widened visibly when his glance was fixed on no one other but the leader of their Company – Dori could see it even from his spot on the other side of the camp.

"Thorin, you don't have to…" the Hobbit muttered, sounding shaky because his teeth nearly clattered as he spoke, and Dori shook his head at the stubbornness of the little lad.

Bilbo trying to seem just fine didn't really surprise him anymore – he had been doing it ever since he had left the Shire even when he had by no means been anywhere near fine, but Thorin's quiet chuckle did because it sounded warm and, of all things, almost fond as opposed to the manner he had treated the Hobbit before. There used to be no chuckles or smiles directed Bilbo's way, and whatever tenderness Thorin still possessed in him was normally reserved for his nephews, although now that the two scoundrels had grown up even that tenderness had become rather scarce. And yet, if Dori wasn't mistaken, that was precisely what had seemed so off about their leader these past couple of days – this elusive, now here and then gone, flicker of fondness in his eyes, or in his voice, or in his manner, towards, of all people, their Hobbit. The latter had thoroughly deserved it after all he had had to endure for Thorin's sake by now, and Dwarves were known for their honour and loyalty to those they considered their friends and allies, so Thorin's changed attitude shouldn't probably be really that much startling. The unusual warmth in his gaze, which was directed at Bilbo, was, however.

Oh, but would wonders never cease?

"It's quite thick, so even though it's wet on the outside, it's still warm and dry enough on the inside," Thorin said with what looked like a faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his lips which he hid in his short beard. His hands were still holding the lapels of the coat securely as if he was expecting Bilbo to shrug it off immediately. "Wrap yourself up in it until the fire's ready, it should keep most of the cold and dampness away."

"What about you? You'll get drenched in no time." Dori heard Bilbo inquire and this time he shook his head – when the King gave you his own coat, what you should do was shut up and accept it gratefully, but then again, Bilbo had never been one of Thorin's subjects, contract or no contract. What was more, he was more than certain that the Hobbit had never encountered a King, Dwarven or otherwise, in his entire life.

"I believe we Dwarves are better built to endure the elements, so I can assure you I'll be fine, Master Baggins," Thorin replied with that same elusive smile which made the hard lines of his face soften into something so mild it made Dori all but squint at him in amusement without even being aware he was doing it. "I have no intention of having you freeze to death, though, so snuggle up."

"Well, then, thank you, I suppose," Bilbo nodded after a pause, seemingly taken aback, but he obediently wrapped himself tightly into Thorin's heavy fur coat all the same, looking snug as a bug and genuinely grateful for it.

Thorin left with a nod of his own, one of his hands lingering on the water-sodden fur until the last possible moment, and Dori was sure it wasn't because he was unwilling to part with the garment itself. Rather it looked as if he was unwilling to part with their shivering burglar. Bilbo's wide-eyed stare followed Thorin for quite some time, the Hobbit looking almost comically incredulous. Dori smirked, reckoning that he probably had every right to be – after all, Thorin with his frequent scowls, deep frowns and harsh ways didn't quite seem to be someone who would do this, especially since he had spent most of their journey so far neglecting Bilbo to the very best of his abilities. But not anymore, it seemed, which Dori was genuinely glad about – after all, homesick or not, Bilbo had become a part of their Company over the past months. What warmed his heart even more was seeing Thorin heading for Óin straight away, and as they conversed in the far corner of their camp, his eyes often shot to Bilbo. Dori had been about to do just that himself – ask the healer to have a look at the Hobbit and tend to whatever aches he might be nursing after the long day of trudging over rocks in the rain, but he was even more relieved to see Thorin do it. Bilbo was one of them now, so it was high time the leader of their Company started to treat him accordingly.

Later that night, after the fire had finally been made, a rather poor supper cooked and eaten, and after they had managed to dry themselves up at least some, Dori watched from the corner of his eye as Bilbo fell asleep still snuggled into Thorin's coat, his hands clasping at the thick fabric and his nose buried into the fur of its collar. The coat must be reeking of dampness, sweat, blood and whatnot, but Bilbo was still hugging the garment for dear life. The sight surprised another subtle smile out of Dori. For some reason, he looked perfectly right with that billowing thing covering him from head to toe. Naturally, from Bilbo, Dori's eyes travelled to the owner of the coat himself, and he was further surprised to find Thorin watching the sleeping Hobbit intently from the other side of the camp, a pipe in hand and his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Bilbo's small frame.

_Interesting_ , Dori remarked to himself as he prepared his own humble bed for the night. Bilbo sure seemed to be developing a certain fondness for that piece of matted fur.


	9. Thorin

Thorin was used to watching people closely having lived the life that he had, never really knowing who to trust and who to be wary of, so he reasoned that being suspicious of all who hadn't proven to him they could be relied on was a way to go. He wasn't as good at watching others as Nori, with that sneaky talent of his which allowed him to be in the right place at the right time, unnoticed unless he wanted to be, seeing and hearing things which were never supposed to be seen or heard by him. Thorin wasn't like Bofur and Bifur in this sense, either, the former having an almost eerie ability to tune in on others' emotions as naturally as breathing, the latter having quick wits and plenty of time on his hands to watch, analyse and put two and two together. He wasn't even like Balin, who could rely on his innate wisdom and rich experience when making his judgements. But Thorin still watched others, had to do it, to ensure safety of his family, of his people, and now of his Company. He was their leader, after all, it was his duty to be alert to everything around him to be able to react in time to protect those who had trusted him with their lives.

He had watched the Hobbit right from the first day, of course, when Bilbo had seemed a novelty, and a puzzling one at that, thus naturally causing his distrust. He had watched Bilbo because he had doubted him, and because he hadn't been able to understand him, and also because Bilbo seemed to have originated from a world so different from Thorin's, so peaceful and innocent and carefree, that mere thinking about it made him inexplicably envious of their burglar, and it wasn't something which made him proud.

What became a turning point in making him reconsider his opinion about the Hobbit – almost against his own will because Thorin was loath to part with his set beliefs – was that Bilbo had somehow proved to be either tough enough or clever enough or cunning enough to get himself out of trouble under the Misty Mountains all by himself, requiring no help from him or his Company, had managed to catch up with the rest of them, although it was still beyond Thorin how he had pulled it off, and then claimed that he was going to stick through and help them get their home back. What got under Thorin's skin, though, wasn't the Hobbit's noble desire to aid them, even though that, too, was something to be appreciated, but rather the way in which Bilbo responded to his harsh words and interrogative tone full of suspicion and distrust – he spoke back to him with gentleness, something so utterly alien to Thorin who was used to answering insults with insults or, better, with his sword, that it left him speechless, more than a bit humbled and unable to take his eyes off the Hobbit as if he had just been struck by something.

And then, to make matters more complicated, Bilbo just went and nearly killed himself whilst trying to save Thorin, an act of utter stupidity considering the size of the Hobbit and that of Azog, considering that there were wargs around, considering that he was making his stand alone, what with Thorin sprawled on the edge of the cliff barely conscious and the others stuck in that uprooted pine, but it was also an act of profound selflessness and loyalty which he couldn't either forget or overlook anymore. He remembered Bilbo's wild, absolutely terrified eyes which met his for a fraction of a second as he sprinted towards where Thorin was lying, swordless and defenceless. He had seen such a gaze many a time before – in a battle, from his own comrades, Dwarrows loyal to him and ready to give their lives for his and his cause. He didn't expect to see anything like that in Bilbo's big, doe-like eyes, but he was proven wrong, and that was where it all turned upside-down.

Taking the Hobbit into his arms, feeling that petite frame against his own chest, feeling the honey-coloured soft curls brush weightlessly against the tip of his bloodied nose, feeling the almost weightless press of Bilbo's hands on his sides – because he didn't even have the arm-span wide enough to hug him properly in response – feeling how ridiculously fragile he seemed there in the hold of his own arms thick with muscles and clad with armour was already turning his world and everything he knew in it helter-skelter, and then he more felt than saw the movement as Bilbo buried his nose into the fur collar of his coat, and that did Thorin in for good.

The impulse of something so raw it was overwhelming which shot through him was brief, but in that instant the desire to keep Bilbo there in his arms, held against the safety of his chest, to keep him protected, to make him his, to have him in all possible ways there was to have someone was so powerful Thorin's knees nearly gave in and buckled beneath him, his breath caught in his throat and every single injury and bruise and wound in his body aching mercilessly. _Nearly_. He couldn't quite let his legs give in anymore because there was a Hobbit clinging to him for dear life, his breath erratic as he was trying to support Thorin's whole weight with his much less sturdily built body, so Thorin had to pull himself together at last.

To his credit, he seemed to have managed to achieve that, moving back a little and about to let go of his – inexplicable, puzzling, fascinating – burglar, yet Bilbo chose that very moment to raise his eyes. They didn't meet Thorin's, however, fixing on his lips instead in a wide-eyed, mesmerised stare, and given the distance between them, the practically non-existent space left between their faces, Thorin could almost feel its heaviness. He pulled in a breath, the sound making Bilbo tear his eyes away from his mouth and finally meet Thorin's, only for a heartbeat because the Hobbit immediately cast them down, looking flustered and agitated and dumbfounded all rolled in one, and Thorin had to swallow a painful lump in his throat and let go of him at last.

After that, he did want to have some second thoughts about the nature of the desire and attraction to Bilbo which had suddenly awakened in him. This had to be impossible, he told himself, he couldn't have fallen for… He hadn't been planning on falling for anyone in the first place, least of all a Hobbit, least of all his burglar, least of all Bilbo Baggins with all those differences they had, and yet here he was all the same, unable to take his eyes away from him. Thorin was old enough to know that love didn't have anyone's schedule to follow and that when it happened, it happened. He just hadn't expected it to happen to him, in such a way and at such a place and time. But there really was nothing to be done about it – as sturdy and tough as Dwarven hearts were, they weren't quite immune to the emotion, but very much the opposite – the toughness just made them burn brighter.

Now, after all Bilbo had done for him and for the Company, Thorin still watched him, but it was with what felt like a new set of eyes. What was more, he seemed to be unable to help his gaze drifting to him time and time again even when watching Bilbo wasn't his intention, and it lingered on his face which had grown a bit thinner over the past months, or on his fair fluffy hair which was growing a bit longer, or on the line of his throat merging into his collarbones peeping out from beneath the collar of his shirt, on his slender wrists and on the little swell of his stomach disappearing under the waistband of his trousers. All those little details were an utterly new reason to watch him, Thorin discovered with genuine surprise, as he found the sight agreeable enough.

Bilbo was still puzzling, though, too small and too gentle and too well-mannered, with almost utter lack of any fighting skills except those which were developed in pretty much anyone very fast the moment their life was in danger, and yet he had proven just what Gandalf had told Thorin long ago – that Hobbits were remarkably resilient, quick-witted and resourceful for their apparent lack of stamina. Bilbo's motives were still mystifying, however – he didn't know any of the Dwarves in his Company well enough to trust any of them, owed neither of them anything, hadn't seemed to be all that impressed with any of them in the beginning; in fact, he had been rather cross after having his pantry raided, and he most likely didn't need the treasure promised to him – for all Thorin had heard about Hobbits, they weren't the greedy kind, and when they were, it was to a much lesser extent compared to other folk. Bilbo had seemed rather unfazed by the talk of riches untold buried in the Mountain, and his Hobbit-hole of a home didn't look like it was in need of wealth. It was reasonably well-off, tidy and organised, just like Bilbo himself.

And yet here he was, sticking with them with unwavering determination which could suit a Dwarf, silently enduring the hardships he was certainly not used to, bearing with the rationed meals, hard ground, cold nights, soaked clothing, bruised hands and twisted ankles – Thorin could still see him limping a little as he stubbornly plodded along, in the middle of their group not to be overlooked and lost again, Thorin was resolved to make sure this wouldn't ever happen. And then Bilbo was willing to look death in the face, confronting the Pale Orc. Thorin wouldn't be all that surprised if it had been while Bilbo was trying to protect himself – he wouldn't have had a choice in that case. But it hadn't been his life he had been fighting for but Thorin's as he ran to his rescue before one single Dwarf of his own Company had done so.

And for all that, all Thorin had shown the Hobbit so far was mainly disdain, with a few happenstances of rather awkwardly expressed care over the past few days, which perhaps only brought out his distrustful and disagreeable nature even more so.

He was puzzled by Bilbo, yes, but there was another side to his interest now. He was also growing more fascinated by and fonder of him by the day. The memory of having him pressed against his chest hadn't faded since the incident, neither had the need to protect him which it had evoked, an odd tug at Thorin's heart, and if anything, his desire to repeat the experience was growing stronger the more he watched the Hobbit. It felt like his eyes had been opened to everything Bilbo was the moment he had seen him standing by his side with that little toy sword of his glowing blue, knowing they would both die a moment or two later and feeling bizarrely disappointed by such order of things. They hadn't died, though, and what Thorin was finally beginning to see in Bilbo was overwhelming.

There was sadness in the Hobbit's eyes, something which told of loss or of being lost, but there was also resolution to go on, as hard as stone, and then a little bit of hope, too. Their relationship had definitely improved – well, at least Thorin was trying to amend for the cold shoulder he had been giving him ever since they had left the Shire – but Bilbo still mainly avoided his company to the best of his abilities, sticking with those who had been kind to him from the start. Sadly, this wasn't even surprising, and Thorin found himself ridiculously envious – envious _again_ , Mahal help him – of Bofur, who had grown to become good friends with the Hobbit, and of Balin, who had always had Bilbo's regard. Whenever Thorin addressed him, though, Bilbo still tended to look if not exactly intimidated but certainly a little wary and doubtful. It was understandable, but it also hurt Thorin unexpectedly acutely, made him feel ashamed of himself, which rarely happened, and left him longing to right the damage and somehow close the rift which had opened between them. The rift had been his fault, after all.

That said, closing it surely required an apology, and Thorin cursed his pride which made it so unfathomably hard for him to admit his own mistakes and then ask forgiveness. He was a Dwarf of deeds, not words, and it was so much easier to act rather than speak, to amend for whatever wrong he had done by doing something good and honourable in return. He had been making attempts to thaw the Hobbit's distrust by doing those little things, helping him here and there, lending that coat of his to warm him up, even bringing him dinner on one occasion, but knowing himself, he must have been doing it with the residual scowl lingering on his face no matter how civil he was trying to be. He also suspected words were still required, what with Bilbo being so fond of them.

Thorin saw him chatting with pretty much every one of his Company at some point in a rather easy-going way, and even Dwalin, as rough as he was in manner, treated Bilbo kindly. If he looked more closely, he could even detect a glimpse of respect in the big Dwarf's eyes – saving Thorin would do it to Dwalin any day. So it seemed Thorin was the only idiot who had failed to notice and acknowledge everything Bilbo was, his kindness and loyalty and courage and resilience and quick wit and so many more things, blinded by his prejudiced attitude and his ridiculous envy, which, as he was beginning to understand, was there simply to disguise the longing he felt for everything Bilbo had and everything he was and, as it happened, for which Thorin himself didn't have and couldn't ever be.

He wasn't particularly keen on the idea of making his apologies while there were twelve other pairs of ears listening plus a very large set belonging to the wizard in grey, whose wise eyes looked like they knew too much about Thorin for him to be comfortable enough in his presence. Luckily enough, though, fate seemed to be kind to him this particular evening to spare him the audience of the others as much as it could be in their present circumstances. They were camping by a swift shallow stream at the feet of the Misty Mountains, where they transitioned gently into the sloping hills stretching all the way to Mirkwood in the east. It was much warmer here in the lowlands, the sun-heated evening air filled with the damp smell of water and the scent of vegetation. He wondered if Bilbo enjoyed it here after their long trek over and under the Misty Mountains, with their barren landscape and dark Goblin caves filled with the stench of rot, blood, orc and whatnot.

Thinking of the Hobbit made Thorin search him with his eyes, something he had been doing on a regular basis now, if only to make sure he was present and as fine as a Hobbit could be on such a journey. Bilbo wasn't anywhere to be seen, though, with only his backpack and bedroll stacked in the vicinity.

"You'll find your burglar over there, Thorin Oakenshield," Gandalf's voice drew him out of his rather concerned contemplation of where the Hobbit might be and if he was alright wherever he was. "Around the bend of the river."

When Thorin turned to look up at the old wizard, his eyes twinkling under the brim of his grey hat were not unkind.

"How did you know I was looking for Bilbo?" he asked, torn between being a put off by the wizard's intervention and grateful to him for the bit of knowledge and now indeed worried because the Hobbit was wandering there on his own, after all.

"I think he might have got a little weary of having thirteen Dwarves around for the past three months, but that doesn't mean he couldn't use the company of a friend right now," Gandalf went on, expertly ignoring the question asked, as he was prone to doing with annoying regularity.

When Thorin raised his eyebrows, not sure whether in surprise over Gandalf's helpful remark or in irritation with the wizard because he was obviously implying too much, Gandalf only hid a smirk in his bushy beard and walked off, in the opposite direction from the bend in the river he had so helpfully indicated.

Well, this might be as good a kick in his royal behind as any to make him pull himself together and do what he had been planning to do ever since the incident with the orcs – talk to Bilbo and offer his apologies where they were due.

It was still light enough, even though the sun was about to drop behind the ragged ridges of the Misty Mountains looming in the west. The last rays of it still managed to provide enough summer warmth, and sheltered by the woods from the wind, the air here was almost balmy, so Thorin should have guessed the purpose of Bilbo's wandering a little way off from the rest of the Company, and he cursed the wizard for sending him off after the Hobbit now, of all times. Because right there in front of him, Bilbo was standing in the shallow stream with the gently running water reaching up to his knees, utterly naked, his back turned to where Thorin was coming from. It was all he could do not to let out an undignified gasp of surprise – having Bilbo turn around just to see him gaping back at him whilst he was as naked as the day on which he was born would certainly negate all his attempts at restoring peace and trust between the two of them, Thorin was sure, so he ducked behind a nearby boulder, which was thankfully large enough to hide him from the Hobbit's view altogether should the latter turn his way, or so Thorin hoped.

Had it been a Dwarf he needed to talk to, Thorin wouldn't have entertained a single doubt and just walked on – his people had no shyness before nakedness, their own or others'. They held due respect to the opposite sex's privacy, but being unclothed in the Company of one's fellow males or females was considered to be perfectly acceptable, especially whilst being on the road. Thorin was quite certain this couldn't apply to the Hobbit, what with his polite manners and tidy appearance. Bilbo would sooner throw his sword at him for all Thorin's troubles than allow him to talk to him while Bilbo was anything but decent, and where would that leave them? The thought was so ridiculous it nearly tore a traitorous huff from Thorin's mouth, so he had to smother it with the back of his hand pressed to his lips before he had stupidly given himself away.

Instead, he leaned against the sun-warmed, moss-covered stone, willing to give Bilbo enough time to finish his business in peace. He also made a mental note to catch the insufferable wizard and give him a piece of his mind about his unwanted advice he was so fond of giving. He must have known why Bilbo had wandered off on his own and had still sent Thorin after him perfectly aware that this would surely cause more awkwardness and embarrassment rather than give them a chance to talk in peace. Thankfully, he had at least managed to notice Bilbo in time not to barge in on him uninvited and unexpected.

That said, he had to admit that he didn't quite mind seeing Bilbo in this new way. Even now, as he was resting with his back against the boulder and meticulously stuffing his pipe with tobacco for wont of something to occupy himself with, his mind insisted on drifting off to the sight he had unheedingly stumbled upon. The Hobbit was as different from his people in appearance as he was in character, much more delicately built with the lines of his body more smooth than sharp, acutely hairless pretty much everywhere except his furry feet – although he couldn't be quite certain since he had only seen him from the back, could he? Bilbo must have lost some weight since they had left the Shire, which shouldn't be a surprise, after all, what with lots of walking, running, hauling things and rather insubstantial meals to provide for all that, and now looked more on the slender side, agile and sprightly and much more suited to the task of smuggling a precious stone from under the very nose of a sleeping dragon.

The latter thought failed to cheer Thorin in the slightest, although he probably should have been – after all, this was what they had hired the Hobbit for, it was all the better if he was beginning to look fit for the task. Imagining Bilbo sneaking through the dark, deserted tunnels of Erebor which were stinking of dragon evoked the memories of flames licking the stone walls and columns, engulfing everything around, scorching his friends and family to ashes, and something inside of him recoiled in horror. Thorin pushed the thought away quickly, wincing and absently rubbing at his sternum as if it pained him. They still had a long road ahead, they might never even reach the Mountain in the first place, so there was no point in worrying about having to send Bilbo off into the claws of Smaug just yet. They would cross that bridge once they come to it.

He still had to acknowledge the fact of his reluctance to do so, and somehow the sight of Bilbo's slim naked frame, his skin pale except for his forearms and shins which had grown tanned and unmarked by scars, evoked an urge to make sure it would remain that way; to ward off possible dangers and keep him safe. Preferably in his arms. Preferably, as naked as he was now, that pale skin warm and wet against his--

Thorin had to let out a long hissing breath and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, massaging the bridge of his nose for a long while. Well, that had escalated fast, hadn't it? Of all things he had envisaged he would be doing on this Quest – being killed in numerous painful ways included – wooing over his own burglar hadn't been one of them. A Hobbit burglar. Bilbo.

It was absurd; of all times and of all places and of all people, here he was, with a pleasant throb deep in his stomach, warmth spreading there dangerously fast, that feeling in his chest, fuzzy and vulnerable, which had been evoked the first time he had drawn Bilbo into his arms up there on Carrock, making his heart seem to make amusing fluttering things, dangerous things. This couldn't be happening to him, here and now, and yet Thorin knew he was as likely to stop it as willing the sun from going down in the west each evening. The realisation was both sweet – because he had long given up all hope of ever finding his One; not all Dwarves did, and then he had always been way too focused on other things to really contemplate it – and more than alarming, because it made the prospect of losing Bilbo – which had a high possibility of happening on a quest like theirs – seem nigh on unbearable.

Thorin's throat was dry as sandpaper as he made his way to the shore to splash some water onto his flushed cheeks, feeling dazed and quite a bit giddier than he would have preferred to be. He only hoped that Bilbo was done with his washing and was dressed into something decent because, by Durin's beard, Thorin needed some cool water on his face right now to get him back to his senses and he was going to get it, otherwise…

"Thorin!" there came a surprised gasp, a bit more high-pitched than Bilbo's normal tone, as Thorin crouched on the gravel shore to cup the cool clear water into his hands and buried his flushed face in them, not daring to spare a single glance in the direction of the Hobbit. "What are you--" Bilbo sputtered and then apparently thought better of it, once again making Thorin marvel a little at his manners – should he have come upon a Dwarf unnoticed like this and startled him, he would have received an earful of dirty language and perhaps a stone hurled at him. Instead, there was only silence as Thorin took his time to wash his face, rubbing at it harshly, the cold water pleasantly refreshing. He turned his eyes towards where the Hobbit's voice had come from only when the heat that had spread through his chest and his belly so fast seemed to have abated somewhat.

"You shouldn't be wandering alone in these parts of the world," Thorin said, his voice hoarser than he would have preferred it to be. "It might have been some goblin or an orc instead of me."

Then he rose to his full height, finally giving Bilbo a proper, even if maybe a bit apprehensive, look. The Hobbit seemed simultaneously scandalised and amused as he stood ankle-deep in the stream, now _thankfully_ wearing his pants, with a wet shirt in hand, his bare upper body still glistening with water. There was no hair on his chest, Thorin noted to self, trying to ignore another excited stir in his gut.

"I'm not quite wandering about, am I?" Bilbo replied a little testily, the gruffness in Thorin's voice apparently being interpreted in the wrong way. "Can still hear all the ruckus the rest are making in the camp, in fact. Besides, Gandalf said it is quite safe around here so I thought I might finally indulge in some privacy, but it appears that's not destined to happen."

"You don't wish to have me for company so much?" Thorin asked, aiming for the light-hearted tone but not sure if he was succeeding or not. He could understand why Bilbo wouldn't but it still didn't make it any more pleasant to have his nose rubbed into it, much as he deserved it.

"I didn't say that, did I?" Once again, there was that little flash of a smile tugging at the corners of Bilbo's mouth, one which Thorin hadn't been able to deal with for a while, persuading himself that it was because it was too soft and open for one who was designated to enter Smaug's lair in Erebor. In reality, it was simply rather charming and it seemed like Thorin was finally ready to acknowledge it. "I just meant that I don't have to be babysat while I'm doing a little laundry and trying to scrub the week-old dirt off my face. If you came for that, I suggest you return to the camp and leave me to my own devices, but if… well…"

Suddenly, Bilbo trailed off, as if he wasn't sure that Thorin would ever entertain a thought of staying except for the purpose of keeping a watchful eye on him, and in that pause, Thorin ceased his chance before he managed to change his mind and follow the Hobbit's advice, sauntering back to where he had come from without accomplishing what he had planned to do in the first place.

"I came to apologise," he sighed wearily, heading over the wet sand and gravel towards where Bilbo was standing and sat down on the shore beside a small stone on which Bilbo's spare change of clothes – and how had he even managed to keep that after all they had been through? – was neatly folded.

"Whatever for?"

Bilbo actually did look genuinely surprised, though whether out of mere politeness or if he really didn't know Thorin couldn't tell. Given his infuriatingly good manners, likely the former.

"For how I have treated you all this time, Bilbo. For Rivendell, too."

"That's hardly any cause for--" the Hobbit started but Thorin raised his hand to interrupt him.

"That is a cause, and even if you don't suppose so, which I believe you are saying out of sheer civility that I do not really deserve, I still beg you to give me a chance to restore my good name in your eyes. That was hardly a way to treat anyone, let alone a member of my own Company, especially not for someone who was raised as a crown prince and who presumes to be the King. For that I am truly sorry."

In response, there was just another one of those soft smirks as Bilbo looked at him for a few seconds and then went back to his washing, as if nothing out of ordinary had taken place, as if Thorin had been talking about the change of weather rather than begging pardon for his improper behaviour of before. It must have hurt him, and yet Bilbo still refused to make a big deal out of it.

"Thorin, I understand," he said after a pause, mildly, as he scrubbed at a stain on his shirt. "You had the right to be distrustful, and like I said, I would have doubted me, too. In fact, I did, most of the way here. And I still do, sometimes. I don't really know much of your story except for what I have heard from others so far, nor was I there to witness any of it to understand what you have been through. I know there are things in life which can change a person in a way for which one shouldn't really be blamed. I'm glad you've come, though."

There was another brief smile directed his way, which resonated with yet another throb somewhere deep in Thorin's gut. He longed for that smile, he realised suddenly, and being the focus or the cause of it felt quite remarkable. _Was this really happening?_ he wondered again, almost disoriented as if he was under some spell caused both by the fuzziness in his stomach, Bilbo's kind words and his sweet little smirk. Was he really falling in love with a Hobbit who was almost a fourth his age, here in the middle of nowhere whilst being on a suicidal mission to reclaim Erebor from a living fire-breathing dragon, as he watched the said Hobbit cleaning the dirt off his shirt standing ankle-deep in whatever river it was half-undressed? The notion seemed ridiculous yet there was nothing ridiculous about the way his heart was beating slightly faster in his chest as he couldn't take his eyes off Bilbo's naked arms and chest. There was also a definitely not ridiculous heaviness in his nether regions, which told him all he needed to know – he desired Bilbo like he had never desired anyone else, with his smiles and the soft lines of his body and all those mild manners of his.

"I believe I should also thank you for your understanding then," Thorin murmured, feeling almost skittish under that benign gaze all of a sudden, and it wasn't due to shame or embarrassment any more. The warmth in Bilbo's eyes seemed to kindle the heat inside of him even more, and Thorin had to clench his hands together to disguise their light tremor. 

"Well, then, apology is accepted and gratitude acknowledged," his burglar smiled again. "Shall we call it a truce in this case?"

"Aye," Thorin nodded with a smile of his own. It felt almost novel on his face, as if the muscles beneath his skin practically creaked in effort to remember the very act of doing it. "Bilbo?"

This time, the Hobbit hummed to acknowledge he had heard him without distracting from his washing.

"Why did you do it?"

"Did what?"

"Joined the Quest?" Thorin elaborated, watching, entranced, as the hint of the muscles, barely visible under the pale skin of Bilbo's arms and abdomen, strained and relaxed while he twisted and turned the garment in his hands. "I never really believed Hobbits to be even relatively fond of such travels, which was one of the reasons I refused to trust you for so long."

"Does it mean you trust me now?" There was another fleeting quirk of the Hobbit's lips as he offered Thorin an amused glance, his eyebrows raised.

"You saved my life," Thorin shrugged as if it explained everything. To him, it did, but maybe not so to Bilbo, so he went on. "We Dwarves… what is said about us is true, we are a very reserved folk when it comes to dealings with strangers, upholding traditions and protecting our heritage fiercely, slow to trust even those of our race let alone others, but we are also very loyal to those who have earned our confidence. Saving one's life would do it. I am still here thanks to you; the least I can do is trust you in return."

Bilbo nodded, this time looking thoughtful, but said nothing more for a while.

"Why are you here, Bilbo?" Thorin ventured again, doing his best to make his voice lose its usual gruffness – he needed to be understood correctly this time around, that he was genuinely intrigued and trying to comprehend Bilbo's motives to be able to comprehend him, not to accuse him of anything.

"I…" the Hobbit sighed as if knowing he couldn't avoid a long story now that Thorin had asked him to share it. "My mother, she was a Took, a clan known amongst us Hobbits to be quite… Daredevils, some call them, although your definition of the word might be very different from what my people give it," Bilbo chuckled rather fondly, surprising a return smile out of Thorin. 

"What is your people's definition?"

"It is normally used when one is adventurous and reckless enough to actually embark on a journey to the neighbouring settlements to see what life is like over the hill or across the water. It is true, Hobbits are a rather settled folk, maintaining bonds with numerous relatives and upholding our traditions, just like you do with yours. That is why venturing out is frowned upon by most. I don't believe that's anywhere near reckless by your standards. My dad wasn't anything like that, a very respectable and well-off Baggins of Bag End, but since I took after my mother in terms of recklessness – by our Hobbit standards, that is – and he loved the two of us dearly, I spent my childhood travelling to the neighbouring lands for a picnic, or a hike, or some camping with them, dreaming about adventures and faraway lands and trolls and dragons and all that nonsense. I used to pester Gandalf every time he popped by to visit, begging him to tell tales of heroes and show off his firecrackers."

"Gandalf knew you as a child?"

It was Thorin's turn to raise his eyebrows in astonishment, even though, on second thought, he shouldn't have been that taken aback – after all, it was the wizard who had insisted so firmly on Bilbo being the fourteenth member of his Company. Of course, he had to have known him for long enough to be so certain, and, in retrospect, Thorin should have taken his word with more trust.

"Me, and my mother, and her father and so on. It seems he has been familiar with my whole lineage for generations on end. Nobody knows when he first appeared in the Shire, and he refuses to share that particular piece of knowledge."

"Aye, doesn't he love to keep his secrets?" Thorin sighed, having had a bit too much of the wizard's ways over not all that long a time he had been acquainted with him. "You didn't seem to be particularly fond of a potential adventure when we came to your house, though," he prompted, his kindling interest with the Hobbit promising to turn into a proper fire now. _Reckless_ , for Mahal's sake. He wished his nephews were _that_ kind of reckless.

"No, I wasn't," Bilbo agreed and then fell silent for a while, wringing the shirt so meticulously as if his life depended on it.

Or maybe it was just the Hobbit thing, doing whatever they did as thoroughly as possible. Or, it might also be likely that he didn't really feel like sharing his motives with Thorin, or anyone else for that matter.

"I think I had grown up and out of any longing for adventures by then," he went on after a pause, now standing on the shore and looking at the garment in his hands as if it was going to somehow rescue him from the unwanted conversation. There was bitterness in his voice, and Thorin was already starting to regret having raised the topic. Whatever it was, Bilbo didn't seem to be keen on telling his story all that much.

Without a word, Thorin offered him the spare shirt that lay folded on the stone beside him. Bilbo came slowly towards him, shaking the washed item to get rid of the last droplets of water and accepted the one Thorin handed him with a nod and a small smile of acknowledgement. He slipped it on, and Thorin couldn't help noticing that the garment now hung on Bilbo a little too loosely. He wasn't quite the same Hobbit who had ventured out of his front door on that April morning, neither in spirit nor in appearance, braver and leaner and… and Bilbo also did look unforgivably handsome with the last rays of the sun colouring his hair into an appealing golden hue and making it look like a shining halo around his head.

He caught Thorin's gaze on himself, but whether he made anything of it, the Dwarf couldn't tell. There might be a lot of things in it what with the way Thorin's heart was fluttering rather agitatedly in his chest and the pleasant warmth in his gut. The tightness in his crotch had abated, though, thankfully, the obvious sorrow in the Hobbit's soft eyes and his voice killing the beginnings of the stirring arousal quickly and efficiently enough.

"I thought I had buried any thirst for adventures with my parents," Bilbo said quietly as he came to sit on the stone beside Thorin, making the other jerk his head in his direction in shock.

Bilbo wasn't looking at him, though, his eyes fixed on the wet shirt in his hands, his fingers turning it restlessly this way and that.

"Going out and about reminded me of them too much, of the good times, and I…" Bilbo trailed off with a heavy sigh. "I didn't want to be reminded of that. I had to move on somehow."

"I am sorry," Thorin murmured. Whatever was said about him, that he had grown relentless and rough and ruthless and indifferent, might have been true to some extent, but _this_ he could relate to, the loss of the loved ones, the sorrow in his heart resonating with Bilbo's. "I didn't know…"

Bilbo only nodded, swallowing his sadness. It wasn't grief anymore, he could see it, grief had obviously been there but must have been dulled by the passage of time; however, the sadness was raw and profound, making Thorin long to reach out and… he didn't really know what could be done, though. No amount of well-intended sympathy would help; he knew that well enough from his own bitter experience. It was time which dulled the pain, but never healed the wound itself, unfortunately, and learning to live with that constant aching emptiness which had once been occupied by someone precious was a long torturous process.

"How old were you?" Thorin asked, deliberately making his voice sound as gentle as he could.

He knew that sometimes talking helped, though he wasn't particularly fond of this way of dealing with the pain. He had resorted to it, however, in those few darkest moments when grief had seemed to threaten to consume him alive. It wasn't surprising that it had been mainly Dís and Balin who offered their support and a shoulder to cry on, loath as Thorin was to give in to the weakness.

"I'd just come of age when my dad stupidly broke his neck falling out of a tree. They were setting up some awning for an upcoming birthday party, needed to fix the ropes there in the branches. I was there, too, helping out; never really had time to reach him to even…" Bilbo faltered. "They used that awning for a funeral meal in the end. My mother never recovered from his being gone and slowly wasted away eight years later. Nothing dramatically heroic about any of that."

Thorin winced. He must have been of more or less the same age, perhaps somewhat younger by Dwarven standards, when Smaug had destroyed almost everyone he held dear to his heart, and keeping himself together at that age seemed a task almost beyond his power.

"I was younger than Fíli and Kíli when the dragon burnt my home and most of my family while they were still stuck in the Mountain," he said softly, not certain why he was mentioning it – it hurt him as much as talking about his deceased parents was hurting Bilbo, but perhaps some sort of consolation could be found in commiseration.

"It never stops hurting, does it?" Bilbo asked, his lips stretched into something bitter which didn't quite resemble a smile this time.

"No, it doesn't," Thorin agreed, shaking his head. "I'm not sure it will even if I manage to kill Smaug with my own hands and return Erebor to what remains of my family and my people, but revenge is always sweet, so I'm willing to give it a try."

"I really hope you will, Thorin," Bilbo said softly. "I'll only be glad to be of some assistance if I can."

"You have a kind heart, Master Baggins," Thorin nodded with a smile, which still felt too wistful on his lips. "But that still doesn't answer the question why you are here. You aren't obliged to tell me, of course, it is just that I… I've just been trying to understand you."

Bilbo shrugged before answering, his eyes once again fixed on the wet shirt in his hands. "I don't have much left to lose back in the Shire. A rather luxurious cosy Hobbit-hole with a nice garden attached to it, yes, but full of memories I have been trying hard to leave in the past and which still kept haunting me. I think I needed to get away from there before I completely lost myself in them. This Quest of yours is proving to be a nice little distraction, what with all the orcs, wargs, trolls and gods know what else all available to keep my mind off things."

This time the smile stretching the corners of Bilbo's mouth, albeit still being a little sad, was genuine enough. The Hobbit turned away then, gazing at the whirls and twists of the river in front of them, the water seeming darker in the fading light of the day and the insipient approach of the evening, but Thorin still watched him, the fair wavelets framing Bilbo's face, still damp at their ends, and that little upturned nose of his which twitched from time to time tugging at something in his heart, almost painfully so, but this particular pain was a good kind.

"Thank you," Thorin said softly. "I'm sorry I raised the topic, though. I didn't mean to open up the old wounds."

Bilbo shook his head, giving Thorin another one of his smiles. "Sometimes talking it through helps, you know?" His eyes met Thorin's once more, and the obvious offer which was delicately left unsaid was ever so clear in Bilbo's gaze. Diplomacy of Hobbits was indeed remarkable. "I think we should go back to the camp. It gets dark fast in these lands."

"Aye, we should," Thorin agreed, and back they went, walking shoulder to shoulder in silence which finally felt companionable and comfortable enough.

If there were a few curious glances – Dori's and Bofur's and Óin's – and a couple of rather disconcertingly knowing ones – Balin's and, surprisingly, Dwalin's – and then a slyly twinkling one from under the broad rim of the wizard's hat – directed their way when they appeared, Thorin preferred to think he knew not what they might be implying.


	10. Glóin

Glóin was rather glad that Thorin was the last of the Dwarves to reveal himself to the skin-changer – knowing him and his infamous bad temper and reluctance to share as much as a piece of information about their Quest with pretty much anyone who wasn't a Dwarf, he would have made their chances of successful negotiations with that beast of a man even slimmer. Glóin couldn't say he was overly enthralled by the prospects of having to seek help from this shaggy huge man-bear, especially not after Gandalf's fleeting remark that he couldn't stand their kind and could, in fact, simply tear them to shreds, but their situation here didn't seem to leave the Company much choice in the matter. If they tried to sneak out, their host might take them for some vagabond thieves – and rightfully so since they had broken into his property, after all. And then even if they managed to succeed escaping Beorn's wrath, they would still have orcs almost at their heels to worry about. Regrettably, Gandalf was right, they needed all the help they could get, provision, too, and perhaps a few nights of rest to be able to lick their wounds in peace. Every single one of the Company was quite malnourished, and the Halfling would surely become see-through soon, both from fatigue and the lack of proper meals. Their burglar was already scrawny enough, they didn't need him to become even scrawnier.

So Glóin was quite in favour of the wizard's idea of appealing to the skin-changer for help, as long as it would be the old fellow himself who would hold negotiations with the beast. And, speaking of their little burglar, the two of them perhaps made the most presentable and reasonable pair of the whole Company – Gandalf being an ancient wizard who could be on par with the likes of Elrond quite easily, and Bilbo with his courteous ways and smooth tongue. Besides, the Hobbit looked like a sweet little chap, surely anyone who wasn't an orc or a goblin wouldn't think of being too hostile to him. In the wake of this thought there came another one, concerning when exactly Glóin had started to refer to the Halfling as a sweet little chap – he remembered himself being quite averse to his joining the Company, being in full agreement with Thorin on that matter. Amusingly enough, however, Bilbo had managed to grow onto everyone, and his recent actions had only made the others warm to him even more.

Even their perpetually dour leader had done just that, if the dark glares Thorin was presently giving the skin-changer could be judged by. He hadn't objected to Bilbo joining the wizard as they headed for where the bear-man was chopping wood, rightly deeming the pair to be of most use in negotiations, but by the looks of him, he wasn't particularly happy with the idea of having his burglar venturing out anywhere near that beast. Peculiarly enough, Glóin thought to himself, the definition _'his burglar'_ had been experiencing a subtle change over the past couple of weeks or so, transitioning from merely referring to Bilbo as an employee hired by Thorin to somehow referring to him as Thorin's little charge as much as he had been Gandalf's in the beginning, if the time Thorin had recently been purposefully spending with Bilbo in one way or another could be any indication at all.

Meanwhile, when an agreement with the skin-changer seemed to have been reached and they were about to follow Beorn back into his house, the huge beast of a man suddenly shifted his attention to Bilbo, who was still lingering apprehensively by the wizard's side. Then, with speed and agility surprising for his size, he picked their Hobbit up as if his were no more than a puppy. Bilbo gulped in a terrified breath of air as Beorn swung him up to his eye level, apparently wanting to have a proper look at the curious little creature.

At the same moment, from the corner of his eye, Glóin registered a movement to his side and it was only his lightning-fast reaction which most likely saved them all from the worst kind of trouble. Before he even had time to think, he reached out to his right just in time to be able to grasp Thorin's wrist to prevent him from drawing that menacing Elvish sword of his. For one terrifyingly long moment, when he could feel unrelenting resistance in the muscles beneath the grip of his fingers, it seemed to him that Thorin would be mad enough to draw his blade and make a suicide attempt of attacking their ferocious host. Thorin's eyes were fixed on the Halfling, who was held high above the ground in Beorn's hands, the blue of his irises acquiring such a stormy quality Glóin had only seen on the eve of battles, his jaw clenched and his muscles all but vibrating with tension. A scowl which looked close to feral was distorting Thorin's features and he did look about to growl, of all things.

"Thorin?" Glóin hissed furiously. "What in the world d'ye think you're doing?" When there was nothing from their leader, who at the moment looked every inch a seething King, but a firmer press of the lips and more tension in the arm Glóin was still clutching, the Dwarf went on, almost desperately, "He's not trying to harm him, Thorin, leave it off."

That it was indeed so was confirmed the following moment, when their host just span Bilbo over his head with what could, with some stretch of the imagination, go for a laugh. It still sounded too much like a growl of a playful yet still dangerous dog for Glóin's liking. Beside him, Thorin let out a hissing breath through his nose.

"Are you really a Halfling, little bunny?" Beorn inquired in that disconcertingly sharp manner of his. "I haven't seen your folk in these lands for ages."

"I…" Bilbo faltered momentarily, apparently trying to catch his breath. "I am indeed, but we Hobbits are the creatures of the land, not of the sky, so if you do not terribly mind, please, would you be so kind as to put me back down, and I will be willing to engage in a civilised conversation with you without absolutely having to embarrass myself by throwing up what meagre breakfast I had."

To his genuine distress, Glóin felt Thorin's arm strain even more beneath his hand. It did relax just a tiny bit the following moment, though, when Beorn obliged and finally put the Hobbit down with what would have looked like an amused smile of it didn't involve so many bared teeth on display.

"Judging by the looks of you, you need a proper breakfast desperately, and then a second one. I remember your kind being nice and round and fat. What business do you have going about with Dwarves and getting thin and pale like this?"

Glóin mused that at least some of the paleness surely came from Bilbo being twisted this way and that at three times his height above the ground, but he wisely kept that back. The Hobbit snorted what looked like despite himself, though, perhaps the mentioning of the second breakfast warming him up to the unpredictable creature. Beside him, Thorin finally relaxed a notch further and slowly moved his hand away from the hilt of his sword. His eyes were still shooting daggers at the skin-changer.

"I'm afraid that comes with running from orcs and goblins all the time," Bilbo shrugged as if it explained everything, and flashed his most amiable smile up at Beorn.

"Little bunnies like you shouldn't be running from any orcs in these parts of the world," Beorn huffed gruffly as he headed for the group of Dwarves crowding the entrance to his house.

"I would have you know that his name is Master Bilbo Baggins of the Shire and he is a part of my Company," Thorin said darkly, taking Glóin completely aback and making him curious as to when the burglar had started to be the _Master Bilbo Baggins_ for him and if by any chance Azog might have hit Thorin's head with too much force to shake his wits enough to make him think that the idea of opposing this hellish bear of a man was a good one. Óin had said nothing could have got through that thick skull of his, but now Glóin did wonder.

He also noticed Bilbo's eyes shoot towards Thorin, wide-open with astonishment and quite a bit of alarm. Perhaps, their little burglar was thinking in the same lines because he looked a funny mixture of being partly mollified and partly wishing to throttle Thorin.

"And what are _Master Bilbo Baggins of the Shire_ and your Company doing in these parts of the world, _Thorin Oakenshield_?" Beorn asked sharply, this time seemingly having managed to surprise even Thorin himself.

"And that is exactly what we would be very glad to tell you about," Gandalf finally chipped in before Thorin had a chance to open his mouth and say something all of them would regret later.

"In this case, I suggest you go back in and tell me your story, and it had better be a good one," Beorn offered and walked towards the doors, ruffling Bilbo's hair as he passed, as casually as if the Hobbit was his pet. Well, at least there was someone the skin-changer didn't seem to feel open animosity to.

Bilbo didn't appear to appreciate being treated like a pet, however, subtly rolling his eyes behind the skin-changer's back and looking quite fed up with being the little bunny it seemed. Glóin smirked, warming up to the sarcastic little bastard the Hobbit was proving to be even more, his little grimaces many and various to express pretty much any emotion he felt without uttering a single word. Next to him, Thorin exhaled what might be a breath of relief, his eyes never leaving Bilbo.

"Keep away from him," he said almost under his breath as soon as the Hobbit approached where he and Glóin were standing, his hand not quite ending up on Bilbo's back, as if Thorin wished he could put it there and yet something was holding him back. "I don't trust him."

"You don't trust anyone, Thorin," Bilbo murmured with a sigh of his own. "That's hardly an argument to take into consideration to make a judgement on someone."

To Glóin's genuine incredulity, Thorin's lips twitched in what might be a smirk. His hand finally ended up between Bilbo's shoulder blades as he gently ushered the Hobbit inside in front of himself.

_By my beard_ , the red-haired Dwarf mused observing their leader with a fair amount of surprise as he took his place at Beorn's massive table next to the Hobbit, apparently intending to play the bodyguard in case Bilbo happened to stray too close to their host once more. The Hobbit himself looked quite bemused by the change in Thorin's behaviour, and he couldn't be faulted for it as of a few weeks ago, the King had treated him as if he were not much more than an empty space. The past days had seen them spending more time together, talking or smoking or walking in silence side by side, than the previous two months, though, and the apprehension in Bilbo's ways around Thorin was melting away slowly but surely. As to Thorin himself, now that there wasn't any obvious threat to Bilbo's well-being, the flash of anger in his eyes had subsided and was substituted by the look of protectiveness so clear Glóin wanted to pinch himself.

He couldn't be seeing what he thought he was seeing, could he?


	11. Bilbo

It was a rather pointless task, all things considered, sitting here and picking flowers to make a wreath out of them, something he had been meticulously absorbed in for the past hour or so. Bilbo had no idea what in the world he was going to do with it. That said, it was rather soothing, so he allowed himself to switch his mind off for a while and just enjoy being close to nature again. It wasn't as if he had been stuck indoors for the past few months, of course, so there had been landscapes and scenery galore. The only problem was that over the most part of that time he had either been too busy running away from all kinds of unfathomably nasty things or, in a more fortunate but no less unpleasant case, too focused on being hungry, soaked, tired or bruised. Now, though, finally, even if for a short little while, he found himself in the most peaceful setting he could wish for, sunny, fragrant and tranquil and one he had been missing dearly. The slightly damp, earthy smell was coming from the ground and the aromas of various kinds of flowers wafted past him carried by the late afternoon breeze, the grasses and herbs were green and lush, the bees were buzzing lazily through the thick summer air, and the August sun was ever so gentle on his skin. Truth be told, Bilbo couldn't quite recall the last time he had really acknowledged the beauty of nature around him and also had a chance to savour it in a self-absorbed, carefree manner he had always been fond of.

In these settings, in Beorn's meadow, it was surprisingly easy to almost completely disregard the past months, all the dangers, aches, and inconveniences as if there had been no troll dens, orc attacks, goblin caverns and dark damp cold caves in the heart of the Misty Mountains inhabited by unknown slimy creatures. Right now, with the sun warm on his cheeks, all of that seemed a world away, and Bilbo once again wished he could just stay here with Beorn as a guest and savour the peace and quiet, the land and the greenery, as a pang of homesickness twisted in his chest. There was something strange about this particular fit of being homesick, though, because all of a sudden Bilbo wasn't sure he missed his cosy estate in the Shire the way a Hobbit dragged on a perilous adventure half a world away by a company of stubborn and severe Dwarves was supposed to be missing it.

Naturally, he longed for the comforts of his feather bed and a hot bath and a good wholesome meal or three, but strangely, this life he had been taken away from now seemed so remote he couldn't find anything in him to be attached to it all that much. Pausing in the midst of his occupation, Bilbo frowned down at the crown of flowers in his hands, genuinely trying to _make_ himself miss home. It was what he should be feeling after all, wasn't it? It was what he had been thinking about on a daily basis, no matter his motives for leaving the Shire in the first place. His need to be away from it shouldn't quite negate the fact of his missing Bag End, it had been the sole purpose of leaving it in the first place – to start to miss it properly and then come back to the life he had long stopped enjoying with new determination to live it with gusto the way a respectable Hobbit was supposed to.

All the same, the memories of the Shire wouldn't resonate in him with the familiar longing he expected no matter how hard he tried to make them do it. Instead, he found himself quite contented to be here, in the Company of Thorin Oakenshield and his loyal Dwarves, continuing on arguably the most insane venture the world had seen because – and this was a revelation which left him a bit dizzy – he had somehow, unnoticeably, grown very fond of the Dwarves, of each and every single one of them in his own way. He didn't really yearn to be back in the Shire anymore, cosy and familiar as it was, nor did he really wish to stay here with Beorn, though he was pretty certain the skin-changer wouldn't mind if Bilbo decided to extend his visit for a while. What he did yearn was to be with this ragged group of wandering Dwarves and their crownless King until the end of their Quest.

The realisation tore an unintended laugh out of his mouth because, truly, it was a bit ridiculous just how attached he had grown to every single one of his companions while he had been certain that he couldn't be more fed up with them and that they were utterly fed up with him in return.

"Would you care to share the joke, Master Baggins?" 

The voice jerked Bilbo back into the real world so abruptly that, embarrassingly, he found himself almost choking on the air in his lungs while staring up at the most unlikely person to be standing here, in the middle of a flower-strewn meadow. Right before him, his silhouette stark against the rich blue of the afternoon sky, Thorin was looking down at him with amusement clearly written on his face, his ornate pipe in his hand. Oddly, the first thought which crossed Bilbo's mind was that the shade of blue of the sky suited him fine enough, matching his eyes and contrasting ever so nicely with the inky black of his hair.

"Have I by any chance grown flowers all over myself?" Thorin went on when Bilbo still failed to say anything, a bemused smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

The next thought Bilbo had was of that barely noticeable smirk, which suited Thorin even more as opposed to his frequent sour and glum grimaces, but before his mind had a chance to go on its ridiculous ramblings, Bilbo smiled in return, finally acknowledging the Dwarf's presence.

"That would surely be a sight for this Hobbit's sore eye," he replied, making Thorin raise a surprised eyebrow at him. "And as to your first question, that's really nothing of importance, I was just thinking about the Shire. Can I be of any assistance to you?"

He asked it for the sake of being polite, nursing a small hope that Thorin didn't really need his assistance in anything right now – he was feeling too content and thus rather reluctant to leave this peace and tranquillity just yet.

"Only in keeping me company, if you wouldn't mind that too much," Thorin said, both looking and sounding disconcertingly _normal_ , Bilbo mused.

There was no scowl twisting his lips and no hostility in those eyes, but then again, Bilbo reminded himself, there hadn't been any of those for some time, which he was immeasurably grateful for. Instead, the residue of the smile still lingered on Thorin's face and the eyes were amiably, afternoon-sky, blue.

"May I…?"

When Thorin pointed at a spot next to Bilbo, the Hobbit almost sputtered, mainly because of the unexpected politeness, but he managed to check himself in time not to look or sound like an unmannered village idiot.

"By all means," he nodded, swallowing his surprise as unnoticeably as he could manage. "This meadow is big enough for two, I believe."

The corners of Thorin's eyes crinkled as he took his place beside Bilbo, not too close but close enough for the Hobbit to feel the brush of air on his skin as the Dwarf accommodated himself in the emerald grasses. Without saying anything else for the time being, he occupied himself with stuffing his pipe with tobacco, looking, of all things, quite laid-back and at ease with everything. The worry lines that creased his brow were still there, of course, Bilbo noticed watching him with no small wonder, but they were somehow mitigated by the still present ghost of a smile lurking in his black beard. It made Bilbo wonder, bemused, whether _this_ was the real Thorin, the one Óin had told him about, calm and agreeable as opposed to the harsh and worried leader of a small company he was quite likely to lead to their death. If that was so, he liked this new version much better, the one that still knew how to smile and laugh, and be caring, and tell tales in such a captivating manner, one that was truly noble and gracious and cultured and somehow, improbably, gentle.

They spent a while in silence which was relaxingly comfortable, under the lazily floating fluffy clouds in the sky, Bilbo adding yet another flower into the circlet and Thorin taking a few puffs from his pipe with noticeable relish. The light breeze brought the smoke towards him, the strong and pungent smell Bilbo could never possibly grow to like when he smoked the tobacco himself, but which somehow suited the image of his companions on this journey perfectly. After all, one would probably be surprised if the battle-weathered Dwarves he was travelling with would find the mild and sweet pipe-weed Hobbits tended to prefer in any way appealing.

"Your folk are fond of flowers," Thorin observed at last, his voice quiet but with a certain note of curiosity which didn't escape Bilbo's notice.

"Yes, we are. Fond of all things green and growing and blooming, actually. We are the creatures of the land, and most of us – well, at least those living in the Shire and around it, are farmers," Bilbo replied as his fingers deftly added a few blades of grass into the string of woven flowers. "You should see the gardens some cultivate in springtime, when everything is in bloom," he smiled to himself a little wistfully. Who knew when – and _if_ – he would have a chance to behold those gardens again. "On second thought, you might not appreciate it all that much."

"And why would that be so?"

Bilbo gave Thorin a puzzled glance. "You're a Dwarf, I thought you were more fascinated by stone rather than greenery."

"That we are, but it doesn't have to mean we cannot see beauty in other things," Thorin pointed out exhaling a cloud of smoke slowly, whisps of which lazily drifted up and dispersed in the warm air.

"Can you see the beauty of this place then?" Bilbo asked, intrigued. It was a thing he could never have thought to be possible – that he would be talking about the beauty of nature with, of all people, a Dwarf, and of all Dwarves, with Thorin Oakenshield himself. It seemed a bit far-fetched even while it was actually happening.

Before replying, Thorin smirked around his pipe and lowered himself down into the fragrant carpet of clover, pillowing one hand under his head and taking a deep breath. Then he gave Bilbo a long keen look, as if contemplating whether to answer the question or not.

"Aye, there certainly is some right here."

His reply sounded perfectly neutral and perfectly relevant to the question asked, and yet there was something in Thorin's voice or his gaze, or perhaps in both of them, which made the very tips of Bilbo's ears burn and his heart flutter in his chest in a rather curious manner. His own reaction to the – perhaps imaginary – warmth in Thorin's words wasn't quite as befuddling anymore, he had had the past several weeks to start to comprehend what exactly was making his heart lurch in Thorin's presence, strange as it was with him being a Hobbit and Thorin being a Dwarf, but the possibility of Thorin himself perhaps being interested in him in the same way was quite astounding.

But then again, these past couple of weeks or so, ever since Bilbo had emerged literally out of thin air before all of them just after the escape from the Goblin caves, had seen a change in Thorin's attitude to him, and whilst at first Bilbo had attributed it to nothing but gratitude and politeness, after having given it more thought he had begun to wonder whether the warmed relationship between the two of them could possibly have another cause. Bilbo could very well recall the look in Thorin's eyes back when they had talked about Bilbo's parents and Thorin had made his apologies, as Bilbo himself was still standing knee-deep in the stream and acutely shirtless; could recall the intensity of his stare, almost able to feel the weight of it on his own bare skin, and the feeling was anything but unpleasant. He could also recall every single instance when Thorin's large hand ended up on him, hovering over his back or patting his shoulder, or grabbing his forearm to steady him, and he had to admit that those occasions had been more numerous over the past weeks than over the previous couple of months combined together. Besides, he could feel Thorin's eyes on himself on a regular basis now, and there was an odd flicker of warmth in them as opposed to displeasure and annoyance of before. Warmth, that was, and… he would have said the reflection of his own longing, but that had seemed way too preposterous to him. Now, though…

"Huh," he hummed under his breath, eyes once more fixed on the flower crown in his hands. "That's peculiar."

"Well, we are not as barbarian as… as many think we are," he heard Thorin's voice drift from a little way behind him, a touch of some kind of resigned sadness in it making Bilbo look back at him again. "It is just that we worship stone more, in the same way as you would prefer flowers to gems, perhaps. There is more to stone than meets the eye of other folk."

"And what would that be?" Bilbo asked, genuinely interested now and more than a bit taken aback by Thorin's unexpected amicability and willingness to engage in a normal conversation.

"It might seem rather dull to you, but there is a lot more in pretty much any stone, various minerals coming together to create a distinct symphony which sparkles in its own way, and each light – fire or sunshine or starlight – evokes a different melody. You have no idea what it is like when you are surrounded by it, deep in the belly of the Mountain illuminated by torchlight. It seems like the walls themselves are aglitter. You might have seen different precious stones in jewellery, but those are nothing like when you see the mineral itself, unworked and uncut, glimmering at you from the dark, only a promise of what it might become, enchanting and drawing. They are different colours and they reflect light in their own way, making the caverns shine with the magic of the Mountain itself."

Fascinated by Thorin's quiet but passionate speech, by the mere fact that he was readily sharing all this with him and by how remarkably eloquent he could actually be, all Bilbo could do was stare back, his flowers temporarily forgotten. The nostalgic look gave Thorin's severe face a kind of mildness which was hard to look away from. It was, quite frankly, more than a little charming.

"Is it like that in Erebor?" he asked softly.

"Yes, it is. There are halls and caverns and caves and tunnels of carven stone; mines so deep they seem to go right to the core of the earth, and it is mesmerising to see everything glitter and glimmer in the firelight. I could perhaps tell you about a different kind of flowers, precious ones that bloom there in the darkness under the Mountain when light falls on them, greens and blues and yellows and crimsons so rich and vivid it never fails to take your breath away. But I hope that one day you will see them for yourself, those exquisite, eternal blossoms of the Lonely Mountain. Of my home."

"You make it sound quite enticing," Bilbo admitted, and indeed he was, enticed not only by Thorin's suddenly discovered vigorous fluency, but by the delicate smile on his face and the gentleness in his eyes.

This time, the Dwarf actually let out a short laugh and shifted his gaze until it met Bilbo's. There was dreaminess in it, too, which seemed so rare and uncanny Bilbo found himself even more mesmerised by it.

"It is enticing," Thorin nodded lightly, still smiling. "Mayhap you'll find those flowers of the Mountain as precious as you do the ones in this meadow, Master Baggins."

With that, he reached out to pluck a delicate lilac coloured blossom, trifled with it for a couple of moments as if trying to understand what beauty Hobbits might find in a thing so small and frail compared to their invaluable precious stones, and then handed it over to Bilbo.

"What is this one?" he asked. "It looks like it'll match those in your circlet."

Before accepting it, Bilbo shifted his gaze between the delicate flower in Thorin's rough fingers and his face, to his surprise realising that the colour of the petals was almost the same shade as Thorin's irises.

"That's a forget-me-not, even kids know this," Bilbo murmured with a smile of his own, carefully taking the tiny blossom to add it to his ringlet.

"We Dwarves aren't supposed to know anything about flowers and some such. Óin could, though, he's a healer so he does have quite extensive knowledge of herbs and greens."

Bilbo only nodded, a little lost as to what he could say to that, instead occupying himself with weaving the flower into the almost finished wreath.

"Tell me about the Shire, Bilbo," Thorin asked suddenly, and Bilbo had to look at him again, taken aback by the use of his first name.

So far, he could probably count the times the Dwarf had done it on the fingers of one hand. The initial and rather contemptuous _'Burglar'_ and _'Halfling'_ had been gradually changed by a more cordial _'Master Burglar'_ and then by a rather formally sounding _'Master Baggins'_. Hearing Thorin call him by his given name, his voice oddly soft as he did that, was a new and, Bilbo was quickly finding, exciting thing.

"What was it like to live a life of peace amongst those rolling green hills? What do you miss the most about it?" Thorin went on, his voice acquiring a strange note of wistfulness as he talked of peace, and, Bilbo suddenly realised, it must have been precisely what it sounded like – wistfulness, profound yearning for something Thorin had been deprived of for such a long time.

For one fleeting moment, Bilbo allowed himself to imagine what it could be like to have Thorin back in the Shire, amongst those rolling hills and blooming meadows, in the safety and comfort of his neat and comfortable Hobbit-hole, living the life of peace and plenty by his side. Then he had to blink and dispel the sweet illusion before it could take root in his mind – Thorin in the Shire, for gods' sakes, a Dwarven King, severe and majestic, coveting his gold and gems, a warrior thirsty for battle, getting absorbed into the routine of a rural life next to a simple Hobbit, seriously? He must have been out of his mind to even allow the thought to be conceived in the first place. Even if by some unfathomable twist of fate Thorin did end up in the Shire with him, he would probably start to howl and growl and paw at the walls and stomp his restless iron-shod feet from the sheer monotony of such a life after a few days, a week at most.

"What do I miss the most?" Bilbo finally echoed, taking his eyes away from a rather appealing sight of Thorin lying in the grass by his side and lifting them up to the sky instead. "Well, that could be the way the light of the setting sun fills the air on summer evenings, making everything give off a mild golden glow, with children's laughter and sing-song voices of Hobbit ladies calling their young home for supper. It has the feeling of safety and tranquillity and some kind of stability which is so profound you could almost wrap yourself into it. I think I miss those carefree moments most of all."

And just like that, with a dreamy smile of his own, Bilbo went on to tell Thorin about his homeland, about little things which he had taken for granted for years upon years until the moment he had been taken away from them, about the twittering of birds on an early morning in May, about the bustling marketplace which served as a places to exchange gossip and news as well as buy the freshest products, about Gandalf's fireworks on the nights of some parties, about idling in the meadow of fragrant grasses with a book in hand, about staying indoors and gazing out of his little round window, with a cup of steaming hot tea, watching the first thunderstorm of the year rage outside. Every single little recollection drew a perfect picture of the idyllic life of the small piece of land inhabited by Hobbits, a life which Bilbo had dreamed so much of escaping from back when he had been a little Hobbit pestering his mum to tell him stories of dragons and Elves and brave warriors.

"It is a bit ironic that now I actually find myself trapped in one of those stories from my childhood," Bilbo mused aloud. "Hadn't even wished to be in one for years."

"Those stories are much less alluring when they stop being stories and turn to life," Thorin observed quietly, his voice tinged with graveness.

"Yes, in a way. Way too dangerous and violent and bloody most of the time," Bilbo agreed, scrunching his nose a little. "But I'm glad I was given a chance to take part in one, all the same. And I'm really glad to be where I am right now."

_With you in this flowery meadow_ , Bilbo nearly added, _with a Dwarven King sprawled in the grass by my side picking flowers for me._ He wisely kept the sentiment to himself, though.

No reply came from the King in question for a long time, and Bilbo didn't mind – he was way too absorbed into weaving more flowers into the ringlet he had been crafting for half the afternoon.

"How about this one?" Thorin asked suddenly, pushing another flower right under Bilbo's nose.

It was a rather large thing, with one row of delicate crimson petals around a dark-yellow middle. As Bilbo gingerly took it, their fingers brushed briefly, and it sent a tingle through his body, a shiver which seemed to start on the outside with the goosebumps on his skin and end deep inside of him in a little fiery explosion in his belly. It took Bilbo's breath away for a few long seconds before he managed to regain it with a shaky inhale, which he hoped Thorin didn't notice.

"This looks like a wild peony, though I can't be sure," he said softly, giving Thorin a glance and dropping it back to his flowers immediately because, all of a sudden, the rich, shining blue of Thorin's irises was too much to bear.

_This cannot be happening_ , Bilbo told himself in astonishment. Not now when he hadn't felt this both marvellous and terrifying pang in his heart in years. Not here in Beorn's meadow, an unlikely island of peace and quiet in the middle of their mad quest for Erebor. Not with Thorin who was a legitimate heir to the Throne under the Mountain, a Dwarven King, as fierce and magnificent as in the legends of yore. And yet it seemed to be precisely the case, his silly heart not knowing what was good for it and Thorin not making it any easier with that look of what Bilbo's heart desperately wanted to be affection and his eyes fixed intently on him, holding out a flower which symbolised love and romance in pretty much any culture he knew of. Surely, Thorin couldn't know the first thing about any of that nonsense, but Bilbo did, and that silly heart of his opened up just a little bit more, like the peony the Dwarf had given him would open to the sun.

Oh, Yavanna, it was just his luck, wasn't it?

"And this one, by the way," Bilbo replied after a while, when his heart rate had more or less dropped back to normal, and brought the flower Thorin had just picked up for him to his nose, inhaling the sweet, floral scent of it, "is sometimes referred to as the king of flowers. A lovely one to look at and smells rather nice, too."

Thorin lifted himself up on his elbows to sniff at the offered flower, looking rather dubious. "Huh, if you say so."

"I do indeed say so," Bilbo nodded with a smile he couldn't hold back for the life of him, weaving the flexible stem into the circlet as the final addition to it. He then bound it with a few blades of grass so that the crown wouldn't fall apart and got back to his feet with a satisfying crack in his spine and a pleasant sense of accomplishment, his creation finally finished. "This one might as well be yours since this is a _crown_ of flowers, after all, and I very conveniently happen to have a king nearby," he added with a chuckle as he plopped the said crown onto Thorin's head, the forget-me-nots in it matching the colour of Thorin's surprised eyes very nicely and the crimson peony blossom making for a lovely centrepiece of the whole composition. "Good evening to you, Your Majesty."

With that, Bilbo left the slightly puzzled but looking even more charming for all that Dwarven King all by himself in the meadow, feeling a little drunken, very Tookishly insane and yet at the same time refreshingly awake and young and alive and better than he had been in years. He only wished they could stay in the safe serenity of Beorn's meadow for a long, long while, doing just that, talking, picking flowers and looking at each other in the golden rays of the evening sun.

Oh, but did he wish.

*

Neither of them noticed Glóin standing at the very edge of the meadow with his brother as they smoked their pipes, leaning on the wooden fence separating it from Beorn's garden. As he laughed out suddenly, a jolly and amiable sound, Óin gave a start.

"What are you croaking at?" he asked, a bit perplexed and somewhat annoyed as if he hadn't been let in on the joke.

"Have you ever happened to behold a Dwarf in a flowery crown, brother?" Glóin grinned. When Óin gave him an uncomprehending squint, Glóin nodded in the direction of the meadow, where their King was sitting on his arse in the field of daisies, or whatever they were. "Look yonder."

"Huh?" Óin peered there in an amused manner, a smile of dawning understanding on his face turning into a sly grin by the second. "Seems like his majesty is a bit on the wooing side, after all. Our tame Master Burglar proves to be a very suitable material for making bets. How about another little wager?"

"Always in, brother."

"Five silver coins that by the end of the journey he'll get the Hobbit to bed with him."

"I'd say earlier than that. Thorin isn't known either for his patience or self-restraint in that matter."

"I'd say so too, but look at that lovestruck-fool air of his," Óin huffed nodding at Thorin who by this moment had taken the crown of flowers off his head and was currently trifling with it whilst still sitting in the meadow looking unusually amused and, by Durin's beard, almost _dreamy_. "I'd say he'll try to court the little fellow first, in his awfully awkward manner because Thorin knows nothing of flirting and he hasn't courted anyone in his life. I'm afraid Bilbo's in for a king-sized surprise at some point."

"He's already had way too many, he should be getting used to them by now," Glóin chuckled, still shaking his head at Thorin, of all people, sitting there in the field and now sniffing at the flowers in his hands so cautiously as if they could bite his long Durinesque nose right off.


	12. Bifur

Bifur might not be able to speak the common tongue anymore, hadn't been able for years in fact, but that was but an inconvenience rather than a flaw, at least as far as he was concerned. He could still speak Khuzdul fine enough and use some Iglishmêk, too, although even the words of his mother tongue tended to fail him sometimes, slipping away from him and somehow eluding being spoken. That was unfortunate indeed, but he was somewhat recompensated for any defects of speech he had developed with his increased ability to watch and notice what others very often overlooked, too focused on their own blabbering. He would say his cousin was like that, what with Bofur's sometimes irritating habit of talking a mile a minute and then putting his foot in it in all the wrong places, but for his lack of astuteness he made up with his innate ability to perceive what others felt, an ability to empathise developed to an extent rarely found in Dwarves. It came naturally to his cousin, seemingly without him even being aware of it most of the time – he just tended to know when whoever he was speaking to was feeling in need of a company, a shoulder to cry on, a partner in fun – or crime – or an ear to lend.

Bifur wasn't like that in the emotional department, but he was naturally observant, even more so now after that axe had lodged itself in the middle of his brow, and he still, thankfully, had enough wits left in that head of his to be able to analyse and interpret what he saw. Together with Bofur, they made quite a team between them if making a profile of someone was needed. His cousin would chatter on, tuning on the emotional part, and Bifur would listen and watch, and later they would exchange their impressions and make conclusions, which, it had to be admitted with no small amount of pride, were eerily right most of the time.

Just like that, he had known for a long while that Thorin wasn't a happy Dwarf by any stretch of the imagination. That was not to say that he was always as morose as he had been for the most part of their journey so far – Bifur was used to seeing a smile on his face, genuine if infrequent ones which could only be described as radiant even though very few were allowed to behold it. It bloomed into life when those two rascals of his nephews were around to make him grin and laugh almost despite himself. Dís had always been able to coax a smile out of her gloomy brother, too, although the ever-present sorrow in her eyes, which had appeared and dwelled there since the loss of her husband, certainly did extinguish the ever so rare spark of laughter in Thorin's gaze significantly. Frerin had been the one who had seemed to tease that laughter out of Thorin, no matter his state. It hadn't even been about his never-depleted arsenal of pranks and jokes, but the very personality of him, merry and warm and radiant as sunshine in late May. He had seemed to be Thorin's constant source of hope and positivity even in the most trying of times, and he had taken it with him to that last pyre on which his body had been burnt instead of being properly buried by his kin, leaving his brother a shallow vessel of himself drained of the remains of what cheer he had once had. Thorin also laughed around his closest friends, Dwalin sometimes being able to entice chuckles out of him with his crude sense of humour, especially when plenty of ale was involved, but that was pretty much it. Thorin kept his smiles to himself and those closest and dearest to him, guarding them with almost the same fierceness Smaug was guarding the gold that belonged to Thorin and his people. It was almost as if he was afraid that even those few precious smiles he still had left could be taken away from him if he allowed anyone to see them. 

And even so, even despite those rare smiles and those who managed to evoke them, Thorin wasn't a happy Dwarf.

It wasn't any news to Bifur, though – he had been like that for as long as the toymaker could remember him, perhaps only getting more lonesome and grimly determined as years passed. There was pride and desire to reclaim his home, to avenge for all the damage the dragon had wreaked on his people and bring Erebor to its former magnificence and glory, but that wasn't all that drove Thorin to the Lonely Mountain. He seemed desperate somehow, restless, not belonging where his people had managed to finally carve a niche and build a life for themselves. It wasn't uncommon of Dwarves, especially of those of noble origin, to battle grief and desperation by dying heroically, and Bifur suspected – saddened by it but knowing it was Thorin's right to decide on such things for himself – that it was precisely their leader's case.

What was utterly surprising, though, was that, for some unfathomable reason, it seemed to be the same with their Hobbit.

Bifur doubted his story was as gory and violent as that of Thorin, but in the end he knew very well it didn't always have to take a battle or a demise of a kingdom to make one lost. Sometimes, there were things unnoticeable on the scale of a state but tremendous enough in one's small life to turn it completely upside down. He had seen the tell-tale signs of sorrow and loneliness in Bilbo even back in the Shire, the quiet sort of sadness – as opposed to Thorin's rather ferocious kind – in those soft big eyes of the Hobbit, as well as the almost dismayed kind of resolve back when he had handed Balin the signed contract on the morning he had joined the Company.

Bifur had expected excitement, perhaps – after all, one didn't embark on a quest like this by their own will unless there was at least some part of thrill involved; or maybe greed, if Bilbo's motivation to join had been his fourteenth share of the treasure that lay buried under a live dragon in the Lonely Mountain; curiosity even, even though Bifur doubted Hobbits were that curious a folk to actually go on an adventure of such proportions with the possibility of never coming back from it all too high.

Bilbo hadn't looked any of those, though. He had looked like he had just signed his own death warrant, was perfectly aware of it, and realised he still had no choice in the matter whatsoever.

It had only been later that some snippets of his life story were made known here and there, around the fire in the evening or while they were riding on the back of a pony, the Hobbit rather reluctantly sharing certain pieces of his life with his new companions. The death of parents early in life could do that to a chap if Hobbits were anywhere near like Dwarves as far as the tightness of their family bonds were concerned, and judging by what Bilbo had told them, he had been living on his own for way too long, having never really recovered from his loss. From what he knew about Hobbits – which wasn't much but was still something – they were a family-oriented folk, often dwelling with all their relatives in the same hole or in close proximity. Bilbo's home, however, looked as solitary as that of any notorious bachelor, and a very lonesome one at that.

So much more drastic was the contrast between both Thorin and Bilbo that had left the Shire almost three months ago and the ones that were currently sitting across from each other at their camp fire, Bifur reflected thoughtfully, watching them from under his bushy eyebrows as he whittled another trinket, hiding the amused quirk of his lips behind his pipe.

The cold disdain that permeated Thorin's attitude to their burglar had changed along the way, not in one moment, though, but gradually, the distrust and annoyance slowly giving way to reserved, almost reluctant, interest, but it was indeed Bilbo's intervention which had saved Thorin's life which had been the obvious turning point. Ever since then, the persisting bitterness in Thorin's eyes had thawed somewhat, not transforming him into a cheerful happy Dwarf, of course – such things couldn't happen overnight, and Bifur suspected he would never be himself again without the sunny disposition of Frerin by his side – but he still seemed more alive and alert and interested than he had been in a long while. Bifur reckoned it might take years to make Thorin happy and not a small amount of love he had been so persistently running away from for fear of it being taken away from him as abruptly and cruelly as his family had once been. But one could run away only for so long, it seemed.

The hard lines around his lips and on his brow did smoothen a little every time he looked at their burglar now, a kind of longing starting to kindle in his gaze. It hadn't been that of a carnal type at first, although gradually it would surely turn to become one, too; one thing Thorin wasn't known for, after all, was being patient and passionless – but an almost wistful sort of it, longing for something he probably had never had in his entire life, longing for everything the Hobbit was with his soft eyes, mild smiles, gentle manners, kind and brave heart and love of every single comfort a home could provide. Bilbo seemed like an epitome of what a home was, miserable or not – a burning hearth and soft cushions on chairs and tea at four and pictures on the walls and his mother's china and doilies, the very domesticity of it all, which Thorin had been deprived of so long ago that he must have forgotten what it even felt like. It didn't really come as much of a surprise that he was drawn to it helplessly, with the same intensity he was drawn to that Mountain of his.

As to Bilbo himself, after the accident with Azog, it had all become clear to Bifur if not to anyone else, although he suspected the majority of their Company understood what was – _improbably_ – going on all the same. He had only had to see the look in Bilbo's eyes as Thorin had all but swept him into his bear embrace at that moment on Carrock, a sort of revelation in them which had looked like it had shocked Bilbo to his very core. The sadness had remained there in his gaze afterwards – and Bifur suspected it would take perhaps as long to banish it from them as it would for Thorin to become cheerful – but the haunted look of loneliness was gone in almost an instant, substituted with wonder which would have looked almost comical hadn't it been for how bloodlessly white Bilbo's knuckles had grown as he was clutching at the fur of Thorin's coat.

Bilbo had a home – a perfectly cosy and snug one – and no one to put there to bring it to life, and Thorin had been in dire need to be grounded at last, with no home to find refuge in. And there they had stood on the top of Carrock, two lonesome souls clinging to each other with such desperation as if their lives depended on it. And perhaps they did.

Presently, as they were sitting around a small fire, Bifur caught their eyes meeting regularly, both of them seeming rather surprised and a little flustered each time it happened. It appeared it didn't matter if one was a rightful King, born and bred as a crown prince, and the other an utterly respectable Hobbit in the prime of his life; love made fools out of everyone equally. It was a nice thing to see, though, and Bifur enjoyed the spectacle to the fullest.

"Master Baggins?" Thorin's voice sounded pleasantly deep, not a trace of the previous harshness left in it, and Bilbo's eyes shot to him with a mixture of hopefulness and interest. "I thought it might prove useful for you to take a few watches, too, if only to make you more aware of where the danger might come from."

"Me? Wha—" Bilbo sputtered, apparently no expecting anything like that to come out of Thorin's mouth. Neither had Bifur. "I mean, it's not that I want to shirk the responsibility, but that I wouldn't make much of a watchman and most likely be utterly useless if danger came unexpectedly. I have keen enough eyes, though, so…"

"I didn't mean for you to take it on your own, there will be one of us with you at all times. You're a member of this Company, Bilbo, I would like you to see and understand as much about the goings of the wild lands as possible, if only for your own safety. We still have a long road to go, and it isn't going to get any less dangerous."

"I… alright, if you think it necessary," Bilbo nodded, frowning, still looking a bit taken aback and unconvinced.

_Necessary_ , Bifur suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. _The damn fool of a king just wants to keep you by his side at all times, and your safety has only partly to do with it._

It was also turning out that Thorin, with that thick skull of his which had conveniently protected his brains from being bashed many times before, was as hopeless at love and romanticism as Bilbo would be at a fist fight with an orc. Although both were willing to stubbornly try those, it seemed. After all, there really was something common about those two, no matter how utterly different they might have looked at first.

"Then I suggest you take the first watch of the night with me," Thorin said, but as opposed to many times before when there had been cold command in his tone, this time his voice sounded normal, even somewhat hopeful.

"I'd be most… honoured to," the Hobbit nodded, a flash of a smile on his face and something warm in his eyes, which definitely was not the reflection of the firelight.

To his right, Bifur caught his cousin's eyes, a pleased smirk quirking Bofur's lips as he hid it behind his pipe.

Later that night, when most of the Company had wrapped in and Thorin and Bilbo retreated closer to the edge of the camp for the watch, Bifur did his best to fall asleep, too. He wasn't particularly drowsy and he didn't fancy napping for a few hours before he had to be roused for his turn, but he also didn't feel like being an unwilling witness to anything which their leader and the Hobbit ended up doing. It wasn't his business even if he couldn't help seeing what was going on, so he faced away from the quietly talking watchmen and burrowed under his blanket, graciously provided to him and the rest of the Company by Beorn, in hope that sleep wouldn't desert him now.

When he woke up, the moon had made most of its journey west across the sky, which meant he might as well get up since sleeping on didn't seem an option anymore. It was quiet in the camp and around, save for the occasional twittering of some night bird, chittering of grasshoppers, and much less quiet snoring of Bombur. Rolling his shoulders and stretching his stiffened neck, Bifur, his boar spear in hand, headed for the designated lookout – a jutting outcrop of bedrock a little way from the camp which offered a proper view of the surroundings as well as of the sleeping Dwarves – only to find a sight which tore a soft whistle out of him before he could think better of it.

Thorin was sitting with his back against the stone, his sword within easy reach of his hand should a situation call for it, which was nothing out of ordinary. What was, though, was their second watchman napping peacefully with his head leaning against Thorin's shoulder, his face buried into the tousled fur collar, knees pulled to himself and arms crossed across his middle, looking snug as a bug in a rug. Bifur bet it was as cosy a place for sleep as could be found for miles around, at least for a Hobbit of his proportions and considering that Dwarven blood tended to run hotter, making the King under the Mountain a warm enough pillow to lean on, even if not a particularly soft one.

At the sound of his whistle, Thorin looked up, even though he must have heard Bifur coming well before that. There was a flash of conflicting emotions on his face, a bit of confusion and uneasiness among them, but it didn't quite manage to overshadow contentedness in his eyes, and the little twist of his lips he gave Bifur in response, even if a little uncertain, testified to it.

"Tough watch?" Bifur huffed in Khuzdul, nodding at the snoozing Hobbit.

As he came a little closer, the sight of Bilbo's hand resting very comfortably in Thorin's between their bodies, so much smaller that it was all but enveloped in the Dwarf's hold, was revealed and made the task of wiping off a grin utterly unattainable.

Oh, but things were beginning to look quite interesting indeed.

Thorin caught Bifur's amused gaze but didn't say anything, his smile becoming a little bit more pronounced and a tad more flustered yet it remained pleased nonetheless. Then, he carefully sheathed his sword, and leaned in closer to the top of Bilbo's head to murmur something Bifur couldn't catch, his thumb drawing small circles over the back of the Hobbit's hand. If the desired outcome was to wake Bilbo up, Thorin's attempts certainly failed to produce any effect, the Hobbit continuing to sleep as soundly as he had before. Bifur wondered if it was a Halfling thing, not being light sleepers, or whether Thorin after all did make a nice comfy cushion. He leaned towards the second option, though, recalling Bilbo tossing and turning on his bedroll many a night before, sighing miserably and wretchedly at the ruckus Bombur's snoring created.

Meanwhile, Thorin let out a quiet sigh of his own – which didn't sound anywhere near wretched, however – and, gingerly gathering the Hobbit into his arms, got back to his feet. Bifur watched the scene, amused, Thorin giving him a funny glance as if he was apologising for having to transport his burglar from the place of his night watch to his bedroll like an exhausted child. Not that Thorin wasn't accustomed to gathering sleepy Dwarflings and depositing them in their beds, his nephews providing him with enough practice over the years to accomplish the current task just fine. Bifur was even more amused to see Thorin murmur something almost soundlessly as Bilbo stirred in his arms, the King's nose so close to the fluffy whisps of curly hair on top of the Hobbit's head that it looked like he was doing the best he could not to lean in further and nuzzle it with his mouth. He probably would have, had Bifur not been intruding into their privacy.

Bilbo seemed as if he had the decency to remain asleep, though, whether on purpose or not, Bifur couldn't know, until Thorin gently deposited him on the Hobbit's unrolled bedding. For a while, he lingered there looking rather uncertain, scanning Bilbo's belongings apparently in search of a blanket or a quilt – it was sill summer but the nights were growing chillier by the day, and sleeping without any cover might prove to be at the very least unpleasant for a Hobbit. Bifur was on the verge of fetching his own one to cover Bilbo with but before he could move from his spot, Thorin was already shedding his large overcoat and carefully draping it over Bilbo's sleeping frame. He tucked it around, hovering there perhaps just a little longer than strictly necessary, and Bifur smothered another amused huff into his moustache.

That coat of Thorin enveloping their little burglar was starting to become an ordinary sight.


	13. Dwalin

Dwalin would have clobbered anyone who dared to call him a softie or something along those lines without a second thought. He had never been anything like that, neither in his youth when he had been wild and vigorous and eager for battle, preferring the company of older and more weathered Dwarves than his own peers most of the time, nor in his later years when he had seen and lived through too much to preserve any softness of character should he even have wanted to do so. Seeing one's opponents being gutted by his own hand, their blood and gore hot and sticky on his skin, or having to watch the Dwarves he had known for years and years being slaughtered by the enemy, Dwarves with whom he had had a chat and a mug of beer just the other evening, Dwarves that had been alive and fierce in his memory and should have remained so, watching them die in his own arms, their blood just as hot as that of his enemies, well, that would do it to anyone, Dwalin supposed.

And blood was a funny thing, too, always so sickeningly hot and sticky not matter whose it was. It always felt the same, like something not belonging to this world at all, something unnatural which should by no means end up outside of one's bloodstream and on another person's hands, and yet it did so way too often. Dwalin could remember himself throwing up his guts the first time he felt some orc's intestines falling out from his disembowelled body and brushing his hands, the hot, slippery, pulsing touch of them making him want to retch for a few days afterwards. A warrior couldn't allow to be soft, and getting hardened by battles and death was the only mechanism of self-preservation one's mind could come up with, really.

That said, almost counter-intuitively, he did have a soft spot for little ones, was unable to help it, nor was he capable of keeping up his self-preservation gruffness and harshness in their presence, perhaps because dealing with small and defenceless things didn't require having to gut them in the end. Children were fascinating creatures, with their innocence and eagerness which pretty much nothing could dampen, their bright eyes open to the world with the same expression no matter what race they belonged to. He would be loath to admit to it, but he had pretty much lost his heart to Thorin's rascals when they had been born, and then to Glóin's firstborn, too, who, thankfully, had been made to stay in Ered Luin. Fíli and Kíli were of age, so neither he nor Thorin nor their mother could have prevented them from joining the Quest, but much as he loved the lads, Dwalin would have preferred them to be safe back in the Blue Mountains. One day, perhaps, if Thorin miraculously succeeded in this mad venture and the Mountain were to be returned to its rightful owners, later, when he grew too old for a good fight, then, perhaps, he would settle down and father a couple of rascals of his own, and be spending his days rolling on the carpet in front of a fireplace with the bunch of them playing in battles instead of fighting in real ones.

The Halfling who had been stubbornly following them despite the initial general doubt in his abilities was by no means a child. From what Dwalin could tell, he was a mature Hobbit, a notorious bachelor if his own words could be trusted, sharp-witted and sharp-tongued, too, if the situation called for it. He was an adult with mild manners and gentle personality, which Dwalin didn't much care for – fellows like him should really stay at their warm hearth and enjoy the small comforts of their land, lush gardens and cosy homes, not run around the wild lands being chased by orcs, grabbed by goblins and tossed and bruised and whatnot, the bear skin-changer had had the right of it indeed. And yet, ridiculously, Dwalin couldn't help being a little swayed by the Hobbit's petite size and those amicable eyes. He wasn't a child but he did seem to be such a small and defenceless creature that Dwalin, who had spent decades upon decades working as an actual guardsman, whose first duty was to protect his charges, could really do nothing about his instinct to keep an eye on the poor sod, no matter if Thorin approved of his presence on this mission or not.

Bilbo wasn't all that helpless, though, as he had proven to them all over the past weeks, smart and quick and unexpectedly brave, which had evoked no small respect to him in Dwalin but had failed to change his inclination to make sure the Hobbit was as safe as he could be on a journey like theirs. He didn't really have to make it known to any of the Company that he was keeping an eye on the burglar simply for the reason that it was hard not to be fond of him. Besides, he suspected he wasn't the only one who had been doing it out of their own volition – pretty much everyone in the Company had grown attached to Bilbo, some more and faster than others, and out of them all Thorin was the one who had remained the biggest ass for the longest time. The old warrior couldn't blame him for not trusting the burglar immediately, nor could he hold Thorin's annoyance against him – after all, Dwalin himself hadn't been particularly pleased with the prospects of having to look after someone whose closest encounter with a sword had surely been a kitchen knife with any luck. Yet even in Thorin's case, his recurring glares and scowls had started to seem a bit too much at some point, as if he had been hell-bent on _making_ himself angry with the Hobbit, and that had had aroused certain suspicions in Dwalin, amusing him for the past couple of months or so. It couldn't have been anywhere near amusing to Bilbo, he reckoned; the poor blighter must have had enough of Thorin's moods, but the outcome of those long weeks filled with ire and glaring was that now Thorin kept hovering over his burglar like an overprotective bear, most likely having finally put two and two together in that thick shaggy head of his to comprehend what he had unnoticeably tumbled into, the great idiot of a King. 

"Keep an eye on him," Thorin murmured presently as he came alongside Dwalin.

His eyes were firmly fixed on the Hobbit, who was currently in the middle of rearranging his bags and packs, the store of food and water perhaps too heavy for him, but they couldn't take chances with Mirkwood. Mahal knew how long they were going be travelling through it, and now that the wizard had suddenly deserted them, the odds seemed to have turned utterly not in their favour. Dwalin would personally prefer to have twice as much weight in supplies, but it was already as heavy as they could carry on their own backs. The forest loomed lugubrious and perilous in front of them, and it was the last place in Middle-Earth Dwalin felt like entering, and the fact of it being an Elvish abode made matters even worse. In this regard, he mused, Bilbo was perhaps the only member of the Company who might not feel as averse to going there – after all, back in Rivendell he had seemed quite taken with the Elves, so he could be assuming that Thranduil's people were much like those he had met in Elrond's place. Dwalin knew for a fact that they weren't, rightly being considered less wise and more quarrelsome in the mildest of terms, so he could understand Thorin's present concern.

"Thought you've started to trust him enough?" he asked with fake surprise, giving Thorin an innocent look.

Before replying, Thorin sighed and shook his head lightly.

"That's not about trust, I trust him well enough. There are fell creatures and evil spirits in this accursed forest, and he's…" he fell silent, his lips pressed into a thin line and a crease of worry between his eyebrows deepening. Then, as Dwalin turned to give him a proper glance, he noticed the most remarkable and improbable of things – Thorin's normally sharp and severe features softened into an expression the warrior had rarely seen on his face, with the exception of the past couple of weeks or so, that was – an unlikely mixture of concern and gentleness. "If something happens, if we're attacked or taken unawares, I want someone to watch over him in case I cannot. With all due respect to his abilities and talents, he's not cut out for battles and will be more likely to injure himself with that Elvish knife of his. I cannot trust anyone more than I trust you, Dwalin. I want him protected."

"Huh," Dwalin huffed softly, more to himself rather than to Thorin. He would be doing it anyway, with or without Thorin's command, but the voiced request did take him aback a little.

Dwalin had been more or less Thorin's bodyguard, on this Quest as well as before that, Thorin knew that much and knew better than to argue with it. Asking him to extend his watchful eye to the Hobbit basically meant including Bilbo in the closest circle of people Thorin held dear to his heart. It was one thing to make sure the Hobbit didn't come to harm out of his own choice, and an entirely different one to be told to do so by one who was his bosom friend _and_ his King. If Dwalin needed any confirmation of his suspicions as to what had been happening to Thorin in relation to the Halfling over these past weeks, he pretty much had just received it now.

Thorin's sharp glance made him go on before Thorin had a chance to misinterpret his amusement. Mahal forbid he thought Dwalin was mocking him, exposing that fragile soft underbelly Thorin had been stubbornly protecting from most everyone he met.

"Didn't you tell Gandalf that you won't be responsible for the Halfling's fate? I thought the wizard was the one making sure he stays alive on this Quest," the warrior asked. He didn't mean to question Thorin's motives, but refraining from teasing that gruff clod just a little was still beyond him, the good old friend that he was.

"Gandalf's not around," Thorin said grimly, sounding annoyed with the wizard, which Dwalin could understand and relate to. "I cannot let anything harm him, Dwalin."

"Understood," Dwalin replied after a pause, and then huffed softly under his breath, making Thorin turn to him with a questioning look in his eyes and a frown on his face once more.

Dwalin just shook his head because he had known Thorin long enough to learn how to decipher his numerous and various scowls and to be able to tell which ones were the real deal and which were fake, a mere pretence to conceal the tender side of his royal persona, the side he didn't allow pretty much anyone to see. In this case, the scowl, fake and all that, wasn't even really necessary – after all, Thorin had just told him plain as day that he cared about his burglar as much as he would about his own family, there really was no point in trying to disguise it for anything else anymore. 


	14. Thorin

The darkness around was disconcertingly oppressive, an unpredictable kind of it, so much different from what Thorin was familiar with – the darkness of shafts and tunnels inside a mountain, solid and reliable, the darkness he felt as a part of his own self. Here, though, there were no boundaries to it, odd noises which filled it, rustling of what might be leaves and then might not, scratching and creaking, ever so soft but coming from all around them, way too close for comfort. Even so, strange and unexpected as it was, there was one arguably good thing about it to be found. In a way, this darkness felt sheltering, giving privacy where it was wanted.

Thorin still could not say, however, whether the privacy was _needed_ and whether it wouldn't complicate things further. After all, they were in a situation where the simpler everything was, the better it was for everyone involved, not only for Thorin and Bilbo but for the rest of the Company, too.

It had never been quite like Thorin to concern himself with the emotional state of his lovers once he had got from them what he needed, and he tended to need very simple, basic things – the warmth of another's body against his own, release of the accumulated tension and maybe a few words exchanged as they lazily floated through the residual afterglow. Granted, they had never really been lovers in the emotional sense, merely partners who could cooperate with him to reach one common goal and then go their separate ways, which Thorin had always found sufficient. He wasn't of the sentimental sort – he might have been once, so long ago it seemed like it was in another life with another version of him, a young Dwarrow who hadn't seen much of the world and much of sorrow and misery it brought along with it, but that version of him seemed to have died a long time ago with the death of his family and the loss of his home. Survival required strength and stamina and cold blood, which never went well with being sensitive and sentimental. He knew the hard life had smothered whatever kind of Dwarf he might have become otherwise and, with it, most certainly any chance of his finding his love, the One Dwarves cherished almost above all else. After all, it was improbable that any reasonable Dwarrowdam that knew what was good for her would find it in herself to love what he had had turned into, a hard, severe, suspicious King without an actual kingdom but with too many duties he had laid upon himself. It had seemed equally unlikely that, hard and severe as he had grown, he would find softness in himself to care for anyone else except his people.

That said, Thorin wasn't even sure this Quest of his was about caring for his people – after all, he had left pretty much all of them back in the Blue Mountains, and no one could guarantee them his return. Luckily for them, Dís was there to stay and rule in his stead should he perish, and it was no small consolation that his sister, reasonable, more level-headed and less recklessly ambitious than him, would most certainly make a better governor than what he could ever dream of becoming. With that in mind, could he really claim that he even cared for what remained of his family as he should? It was him who had taken his sister-sons away from her, knowing better than anyone possibly could that the chances of their coming back were slim, and even that would be an exaggeration. The chances were practically non-existent, which meant that Dís, his beloved little sister, would be doomed to spend the rest of her life mourning every single one of her family in the end. She had been but a child when her mother had been killed by the dragon, merely a young lass when her grandfather, her father and brother had perished at the gates of Khazad-dûm, just a young mother with two baby Dwarflings in her care when her beloved had been killed in an accident in the mines, and now Thorin was taking away from her… well, everything she had left.

There had been enough pain following him like a curse so he had never intended to add to it by giving fate another opportunity to hurt him by dragging an unsuspecting Dwarrow or a Dwarrowdam into the mess his life had been for more than one and a half centuries. Love was good while it lasted, much less so when it was taken away abruptly, and Thorin had had enough heartache to last a lifetime. It was a sacrifice he had chosen to make; it was a conscious decision and he had always felt content enough with that. Bodily needs could be easily quenched and matters of the heart had best be left alone, especially when one's heart had become as hard as the stone which he had come from.

That was, until Bilbo.

Who was no unsuspecting Dwarrowdam, of course, but Thorin didn't feel that it made the situation any simpler. Quite the opposite, perhaps, what with Bilbo having been brought on this insane mission of his pretty much against his will; what with Bilbo being of a different race; what with Bilbo having every chance to die at Smaug's claws in the end and in many different violent and painful ways even before they had a chance to even reach the Mountain; what with Bilbo – _possibly_ – falling a little in love with him, too. _This_ wasn't supposed to happen while Thorin was on his Quest to reclaim Erebor, this wasn't supposed to happen at all, it would certainly make matters more complicated; love always did, and he couldn't risk the Quest for this, he had spent his entire life making sure he wouldn't risk the Quest for this. And yet, here he was, so close to the final stage of it, with so many things which could have gone wrong and hadn't, so close to the Mountain he had so desperately coveted to return to his people. And here he was, too, so close to Bilbo and, in him, to everything he had willingly sacrificed for this venture.

It was one thing to be near the Hobbit in the light of day or the campfire or even starlight, surrounded by others; to talk to him as the gentle breeze ruffled his soft curls; to walk by his side along the ridges and across the fields; to ride a pony together with the warmth of late August sun on his face; even to sneakily hold his hand in his when Bilbo slowly drifted off to sleep during their watch and Thorin had no heart to wake him up, preferring to rest his weary eyes on the delicate features of the Hobbit's face and feast on them, openly for once, without anyone's curious glances directed their way. That he could bear relatively well.

But here, in the heavy darkness of the forest that shrouded them, it all seemed to spiral pretty much out of control as far as the matter of his heart was concerned. They had given up on lighting a fire the very first night here because of the loathsome moths but also because the firelight had pretty much failed to dispel the ominous darkness anyway, making it seem even more impenetrable and threatening instead. They had decided to simply camp by the path in a circle, with their provision in the middle and their backs leaning against the pile. Even though it was still technically summer, it was drawing to an end, and August nights combined with the constant gloominess and humidity made for unpleasantly low temperatures, so they had to huddle closer together to keep warm and – hopefully – safe.

The complete darkness almost seemed to be taunting Thorin, so thick and deceitfully sheltering, making him yearn for more than just a few glances stolen or a smile directed his way, or a fleeting touch of a soft hand. It would be so easy to pretend they were alone here, to reach out and feel those mussed curls which looked so damnably soft, the curve of a cheek, acutely beardless, trace down a caress to the pale collarbone which so often peeked out from beneath the collar of Bilbo's shirt and caught his eye. It would be so easy it made Thorin wonder whether Mirkwood was called enchanted for an entirely different reason. It certainly did feel like some sort of enchantment, to be so near Bilbo in this stifling darkness and want, want so desperately to reach out, find his hand, pull it to himself and keep it there, closer to his heart, which had recently acquired a habit of picking up the pace whenever the Hobbit was around.

Thorin had been quite successful at smothering the desire over the previous two nights, staying as far from Bilbo as possible for it to be safe for himself and yet still close enough to make sure that Bilbo was safe from whatever trouble that might come. Presently, he was about to take his place a little way away from him, just like he had been doing of late, when Dwalin's mighty hand closed in on his bicep before he had a chance to sink down. Thorin frowned at him through the dim air, the meagre remains of daylight barely being enough for him to distinguish a sly smirk on the old warrior's face.

"Wha--"

"Thought you'd wanta switch places," Dwalin muttered, the quirk of his lips getting a bit more pronounced as his eyes darted briefly to Thorin's left. He didn't have to turn his head to know that Bilbo was sitting there leaning against the pile of their supplies and huddling into his threadbare quilt.

Thorin couldn't properly see Dwalin's eyes, but he could wager there was a cunning glint in them, which made him both annoyed with his old friend for literally setting him up like this and at the same time grateful because, obviously, the old warrior who might look coarse and calloused to an outsider, understood a lot of things.

"Thought you might like to keep an eye on your burglar yourself when you can," Dwalin's bushy eyebrow shot up quizzically in mock surprise.

"You old bastard," Thorin mouthed in return, unable to suppress a smile of his own, troubled and uncertain though it was. Dwalin only shot him a ferocious baring of his teeth which he tended to call a smile.

He did take the offered place next to Bilbo, however, with a hint of something fuzzy unfurling in his stomach, anticipation mixed with apprehension and longing which he knew he could perhaps suppress and ignore if he made a proper effort. The problem was, he didn't really feel like making that required effort. Instead, he made sure he was sitting flush against his burglar – briefly wondering when exactly Bilbo had become _his_ burglar and whether there was a chance for him to get out of this seemingly bottomless void he had been falling into, drawn deeper and deeper by everything the Hobbit did and everything he was. And even if there was such a chance, he wasn't certain anymore whether he would want to take it.

Thorin sensed rather than saw the movement to his left, which couldn't be mistaken for anything but a shudder, though whether that was provoked by the night chill or something else entirely he couldn't know.

"Cold?"

There was a motion next to him, most probably Bilbo turning his head to look at him, but he couldn't see anything in the pitch darkness that had finally settled over the forest. It tended to do so disconcertingly fast, which set Thorin's teeth on edge. They were still on the road, though, and since nothing particularly dangerous had happened to them over the previous two nights, things were perhaps as normal as they could be in this loathsome place.

"A bit," Bilbo murmured after a while. "It's more damp than cold, though, as if there is a river nearby."

"There _is_ a river here, according to Gandalf and the skin-changer, so that might indeed be the case."

Bilbo didn't say anything to that, only a quiet hum of agreement reaching Thorin's ears instead. He could feel the Hobbit breathe, though, in the barely noticeable shift of his shoulder against his arm and, amongst other things such as longing and anxiety it caused, it felt strangely grounding, as if Bilbo was some anchor tethering him to the present moment and not allowing his mind to stray off into the territories it had spent wandering over the past decades, all revolving around the Lonely Mountain and the accursed dragon dwelling there. Here, there was nothing at all but Bilbo's small frame pressed against him, creating an alluring illusion that it was the only thing which mattered.

Thorin snuggled up a bit closer, craving the proximity, the darkness around finally providing the privacy he had desired so much. It was still uncertain, though, whether Bilbo could possibly want the same, and if he did, whether he still wouldn't be scared off by his actions. They were on slippery ground here, what with Thorin not having much of any kind of experience with Hobbits except a few exchanged phrases mostly about trade or directions before and with Bilbo being the first and the only Hobbit he had ever felt attracted to. Never mind that, Bilbo was the very first person he seemed to have fallen in love with for real. Thorin also couldn't know whether a Hobbit like him – and by Mahal, he was just so different from anyone Thorin had ever encountered – could possibly be attracted to a Dwarf like Thorin. Would he be scandalised if Thorin just reached out and held his hand, openly this time around? Would he be frightened? Would he take it the wrong way, assuming that Thorin demanded something from him rather than asked permission?

The warm presence by his side enticed him, though, Bilbo's light weight leaning against him. He wouldn't know unless he tried, Thorin reckoned, so, ever so carefully, he reached out through the darkness feeling for where Bilbo's hand should be. His fingers brushed over his knee first, making the Hobbit give a small start, and then slid over the forearm that was resting on the said knee. From there, it was just a matter of a heartbeat as he trailed his fingers along it – so awfully delicate, Mahal have some mercy – until they found what they were searching for. Bilbo's hand felt almost disconcertingly fragile and indeed cold so he covered it with his own, much larger and hotter one. He heard the Hobbit's intake of air, though it was so soft no one else could possibly detect it but him, and even that was only because Thorin was all but leaning over his burglar.

When no reaction came from Bilbo in the following moments apart from his slightly louder breathing, he took it as a good sign and, just as slowly as he had been searching for it, he drew the small hand into his lap, cradling it in both of his own for a while and then starting to rub warmth into the cold fingers in small circles.

It was… Oh great Maker, it was outrageously, infuriatingly, damnably good. It didn't have the right to be this good, and yet it was.

Thorin was so absorbed into the process, into the feeling of Bilbo's palm against his own, into the sensation of his cool skin gradually getting warmer in the hold of his hands, into the way how the pads of his thumbs brushed over Bilbo's knuckles, the back of his hand and the slightly moist skin in the centre of his palm that when, all of a sudden, there was a forehead leaning against his shoulder, it was his turn to get startled. The darkness around had apparently intensified his other senses because he could hear Bilbo swallow, the click in his throat loud enough for him to be able to tell what it was. The combination of it and the way the Hobbit's body pressed into his side, as if Thorin was something rock solid and steady and could provide warmth and protection – which was precisely the way it was, he was almost desperate to let Bilbo know – made his breath hitch in the middle of his throat, the only desire pulsing in him being to draw Bilbo on, closer, take him into his arms and pull him into his lap and…

When there was an anticipating throb down south, Thorin had to screw his eyes shut and bite into his lips just to sober himself up a bit. That was taking things way too far and something told him that, apart from the inconvenience of being in the middle of the enchanted Elvish forest and squeezed on both sides by twelve other Dwarves, this wasn't the right time for engaging in anything the like of which Thorin's very essence was craving. Least of all he wanted to scare Bilbo off, and he would most certainly do so if he impulsively acted on what he really desired.

Instead, he leaned in closer, down until his nose brushed over those fluffy, sun-soaked, curls with Bilbo's hand still held tightly in both of his.

"Alright?" he murmured and was relieved to receive a minute nod in response.

He could hear Bilbo's breathing properly now as it was muffled against the fur collar of his coat, something the Hobbit had developed a preference to bury his nose into over the past couple of weeks. Thorin couldn't say he minded that, of course, but if he had a say in it, he would prefer that little nose nuzzling into other things and places. He also knew that nose had a will of its own and could decide perfectly fine for itself, so he just sat there, letting the pattern of Bilbo's inhales and exhales and his own heartbeat measure the seconds and minutes which trickled by, completely absorbed into the feeling of Bilbo pressed against him as if he were his last resort. It was intoxicating, making every single nerve in his body seemingly go haywire in a wish to have and to hold and to keep him there.

When the hand in his was warm enough for his liking, Thorin let it go and relocated one of his palms onto Bilbo's shoulder instead. The Hobbit chose that moment to raise his head just as he was leaning down, which left Thorin with his lips brushing against Bilbo's forehead, ever so lightly and ever so briefly. It seemed to require all his willpower not to move on and finally claim that soft mouth he had come to learn so well over the past weeks simply by watching it open and shape syllables and smile.

There was a soft sharp intake of air and then Bilbo's barely audible, "I'm--"

"Just let me…" Thorin murmured at the same time, unsteadily, interrupting the Hobbit before he could apologise for anything which required no apologies whatsoever.

Instead, he extricated his arm from beneath Bilbo's weight and laid it across his shoulders, not pulling him to himself the way he longed to but rather asking the Hobbit's permission and offering him a choice. Without a word, Bilbo snuggled up to him, his cheek coming to rest on Thorin's shoulder and his hand brushing across his middle until it clutched at his side, and Thorin mentally cursed the scalemail he was wearing – but for it, he would be feeling Bilbo's fingers almost against his skin, the layers of the tunic and the undershirt nothing in comparison with the heavy layer of steel plates. Even so, the touch made the muscles in Thorin's abdomen twitch, and he was sure Bilbo could feel it, too. He didn't take his hand away or loosen his hold, though, and now it was Thorin's turn to swallow his unreleased tension and longing.

It felt like madness, but if it was indeed, it was the most magnificent kind of it possible – here he was, in the pitch dark of the Elves' Woodland Realm, surrounded by weird noises and weirder gleaming eyes, with his own burglar clinging to him as if Thorin was his lifeline, with his semi-hard flesh straining against his pants and feeling as if he had just been punched in the gut, wanting to hold and taste and caress and lick and breathe Bilbo in, all of him, his soft little hands and soft bright eyes and soft skin and soft fluffy curls and that soft smile he was prone to giving those around him. Thorin wished for all of his smiles and all of his glances and all of his touches, desperate for more than this, for the feeling of skin on skin, the moisture of the lips and the slippery sensation of a tongue in his mouth.

He wondered if Bilbo was feeling anything remotely the same, if not the fire that was raging through Thorin's very being, then at least some flickers of its flame. He couldn't tell for certain, but if the way the Hobbit clung to him and the way his breathing quivered from time to time, muffled against the skin of Thorin's throat, and the way his hand gripped and relaxed on his side could be any indication, Thorin – thankfully – wasn't alone in his yearning.

It had been a long while before their breathing calmed down, Bilbo's landing in soft moist puffs on the side of Thorin's exposed neck, his own brushing through Bilbo's ruffled hair. He would think the Hobbit to have drifted off to sleep if it weren't for the sensation of his fingers still squeezing and relaxing somewhere in the region of his ribcage, the faintest of caresses which was driving him half-delirious. He wished they were out of this accursed forest, anywhere would do, anywhere which could provide them some kind of privacy away from the eyes of everyone, these disconcertingly flickering ones in the dark and those of his companions alike. He wished he could see Bilbo right now, the warm colour of his hair and the warm glint in his eyes which, he realised with a certain amount of surprise, hadn't looked quite so sad for some time. He wondered whether the homesickness he had been feeling, and which had annoyed him so at first, had really gone all by its own or if there was something that had managed to alleviate it. He wondered if a King's affection could relieve it if he put a mind to it. He wondered if the fire burning in his chest could be enough to chase away the forlorn feeling of being away from home Bilbo obviously loved. He wondered if Bilbo could accept him and allow him to offer all the comfort he could, little as it was right now.

"We'll get out of this forest soon enough," Thorin murmured against the top of Bilbo's head, not sure if he was trying to console himself or the Hobbit. He wasn't even sure the latter needed much consolation, but maybe he could do with a promise, because this was what it was, Thorin realised suddenly, a promise that there was something to look forward to once they were out in the open again. "And when we do…"

He felt Bilbo's head shift against his shoulder, but the Hobbit remained silent for a while, making Thorin wonder whether he had managed to convey what he had purposefully left unsaid.

"I really don't think it would be all that wise, Your Majesty," Bilbo finally whispered, his breath tickling its way down Thorin's throat.

_Your Majesty_ , indeed. The formality of his address echoed with a stab of anxiety in Thorin's gut. So Bilbo did understand. But then again, it was probably hard not to understand the implication given the fact that they were all but wrapped around each other and Thorin was muttering his unfinished promises almost against Bilbo's brow with lips which felt hot and dry and itching. It was also obvious the Hobbit did have his reservations, and his use of Thorin's title, which was a rare occurrence, was telling about them clearly enough.

"Bilbo," he murmured, surprised to find his voice sound almost pleading, as his hand squeezed on the Hobbit's shoulder.

Thorin seldom called him by his first name, especially in the presence of others, even though the rest of the Dwarves had long warmed up to their resident burglar to address him as a friend rather than an employee. So much more intimate it sounded now, in the darkness shrouding them from everyone, with his arms wrapped around the Hobbit and with his lips so close to Bilbo's face.

"Thorin?" came the softest reply, more an exhale rather than a properly uttered word, and oh Mahal, how did he even manage to pronounce Thorin's name this gently time and time again? It always came out like a caress, as if the mere syllables of it shaped by Bilbo's mouth could somehow leave his lips and end up on Thorin's in a weightless kiss.

It made him feel like something was skewering him alive, but, strangely, it was a pleasant ache, one that bloomed in his very middle and made him shiver in anticipation rather than in suffering.

"I'm not your King, just a wandering Dwarrow on a dubious quest which may well claim the lives of the dearest and most loyal people I have," he muttered, hoping desperately that Bilbo would know that he was included in that category. "We're very much equal here."

The Hobbit gave a small start as if he was taken aback by Thorin's words, shifting minutely against him, and Thorin leaned down by pure impulse to check if Bilbo was alright. To the surprise of them both, it ended up with his lips grazing the very tip of the Hobbit's nose. There was a gasp, the softest of sounds, and then the nose twitched.

There was no coming back after this. There could be none.

He heard Bilbo's exhale and felt it in the movement of warm air against his face and then it felt like he was falling, down and down and down, the longest fall in his life into the unknown until his lips closed on Bilbo's, plump and warm and dry and as soft as everything about him seemed to be. To Thorin's immense relief, there was no resistance whatsoever, but rather the opposite – there was initiative on Bilbo's part, too, as he tilted his head just a notch, leaving his mouth pressed to Thorin's a bit more firmly. It couldn't perhaps be even labelled as a proper kiss, a mere brush and then press of lips, a timid little thing which turned the unknown Thorin had been lost in into something very certain and very defined.

He wanted Bilbo, wanted him in every single way a Dwarf might want his Beloved. He wanted to have him and to fuck him and to pleasure him and to love and protect and shower him with all kinds of pleasant things, to keep him by his side, to look at him and drink in his image and soak in his voice and be unravelled by his deft soft hands. He wanted a kingdom just so that he could lay all of it at Bilbo's feet; but even then the Hobbit would probably wish for a garden of his own, so Thorin was willing to plant the slopes of Erebor all the way to Dale and the River Running with flowers and apple trees and all kinds of fragrant grasses his precious One might possibly have a fancy for.

They parted for a breath, lips still caught against each other's and before Thorin closed the practically non-existent gap between them again, he dragged his hand all the way from Bilbo's shoulder to his cheek. The skin felt flushed beneath his fingertips, which made him smile as he leaned in closer again. This time around, he was delighted to find Bilbo meeting him with obvious eagerness, and it wasn't long before the cautious, close-mouthed kiss evolved into a still slow and careful and yet so much more sensual one, Bilbo's lips parting to allow him the first taste as their tongues brushed. He reminded Thorin of everything nice and light and sunny, like a summer evening with sunshine infiltrating through the leaves of a tree, warm and sweet and—

Thorin had to break it off first, though not willingly. He wasn't the most patient of Dwarves by any standards, and it had been such a horribly long while since he had last been intimate with anyone that Bilbo's lips and tongue, pliant and eager, were likely to undo him in the matter of minutes now, and this wasn't either the place or the time for it. They had to stop now, but oh gods, was it hard. _He_ was hard, too, painfully so, his flesh feeling swollen and on the verge of exploding with the pressure of many months of having to be content with the intimacy of his own hand. They had to stop it before it turned into an utter mess. He didn't know anything at all about Hobbits' sexual zeal, but if it was to be judged by the way Bilbo's body was shivering against his own, his breaths ragged and muffled against his cheek, his particular Hobbit was just as badly yearning as Thorin himself.

Screwing his eyes tightly, Thorin shifted his mouth to Bilbo's cheek instead, pressing a kiss to the hot skin, and then moving to his nose and his eyes and his forehead, feeling the Hobbit's hand clutching at the collar of his tunic, short nails grazing over his collarbone, only making Thorin shudder all the more for it.

"We will get out of here, Bilbo," he repeated the same words again, a plea and a promise and a reassurance all rolled in one, and this time he felt the Hobbit nod as he buried his face in the crook of Thorin's neck. His hand released its hold on his tunic and slid a little way down until it halted and lingered right above the spot beneath which Thorin's heart was hammering. The hand settled there, splayed against his chest, and Thorin had to suppress a full-fledged moan, both desperate and content, because it felt like Bilbo was literally holding his heart in the palm of his little hand.

He was lost, hopelessly, unreasonably, desperately lost and yet, simultaneously, he was also found. And he couldn't have been gladder about it.

"I won't allow any harm come to you, _bunnanunê_ , not as long as I breathe," he whispered hoarsely, more loudly than before but at this point he didn't really care anymore if any of the others weren't sleeping and could hear him spilling his heart out to his burglar. He trusted them with his life, so he had no doubt they would understand this, too. "I promise."

"Don't let any harm come to _yourself_ , Thorin." He felt Bilbo shake his head minutely, and the hand on his chest pressed to it more firmly. "Promise me that, if you have to promise anything at all."

Much as he wanted to do just that, promise Bilbo anything he wished in this world, this was one thing he knew he could not have any control over. He was sure Bilbo knew it, too, so when there was only silence from him as a response, the Hobbit's arms wrapped around his middle with such force and determination it felt like Bilbo wanted to keep him there forever. Thorin would really love to do just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bunnanunê - my tiny treasure (credits for the use of Khuzdul go to the Dwarrow Scholar from tumblr)


	15. Thorin

"Not our only hope," he had told Balin as the older Dwarf let out a less than pleased sigh of resignation to the most likely fate of rotting in Thranduil's dungeons until the end of their days.

Bilbo wasn't here with them, which may mean a few things, and not all of them as hopeful as Thorin wished to assume. The spiders might have got him in the end – after all, what was he? A petite Hobbit with an Elvish knife for protection, which he couldn't even use properly enough, left alone with those horrid creatures thrice his size. Thorin's heart clenched painfully in his chest at the thought of Bilbo having to face the horrors of the forest on his own, the stuffy darkness and the watchful eyes and the hungry spiders, with neither food nor water. That was, if he hadn't already been caught and killed by them by the moment Thorin and the Company had been captured, and if that was the case…

Thorin dug his fingers into his dishevelled mane, pulling at the roots of his hair until the real physical pain somewhat distracted him from the one in his heart, no less real and much worse for it. He had intended to protect Bilbo; those had been no fickle promises whispered in the darkness under the influence of imaginary privacy and longing he had developed for the Hobbit. He should have protected him, and yet he had failed to do so, again. It was as if for some unfathomable reason Bilbo always managed to get himself into trouble beyond where Thorin could reach him to help him, being caught by trolls, lost and wandering through the maze of the Goblin caves and defying orcs for Thorin's sake while Thorin himself lay sprawled and half-unconscious at his feet. And yet, the inner voice inside him pointed out, he had still managed to come unscathed out of all the plights pretty well without his help.

This was what gave him hope now, the hope he had told Balin about. Bilbo had proven to them on numerous occasions that he wasn't your average Hobbit. In fact, he had proven that he was quite an extraordinary Hobbit, whether he be a real burglar or not. Given his past history, there still was a chance that Bilbo had managed to escape from the spiders and the Elves and was out there somewhere, plotting their breakout from the Elven prison. The chances were slim, admittedly, but Thorin couldn't lose hope now. Something told him that if he did, both the hope of reaching Erebor by the designated date and thus failing to fulfil the prophecy and the hope of ever seeing his Hobbit alive, he would be lost along with it.

Yet days crawled on – he couldn't say how many, telling time was a task nigh on unachievable here where nothing changed from day to day, there was no soft padding of light feet and no dark grey eyes to look into his, only various guards coming from time to time to bring him meagre food and water to drink and to wash. As far as dungeons went, Thranduil's wasn't all too bad, he had to admit that, but he would take an orc prison any day simply because there was a chance to break out of it by using sheer brutal force. This didn't seem to be the case with Elven ones, as he should well know himself, without Balin having to tell him this.

He didn't know how much time had passed by the moment when even his stubborn hope had begun to wane. There was no sign of Bilbo, no matter how desperately he waited for him to appear, which could only mean that the Hobbit hadn't managed to get away.

"Curse you!" Thorin swore under his breath, unable to even let the thought of Bilbo possibly being dead into his mind. The prospect of rotting here till the end of his days knowing that he had failed to come anywhere near the Mountain let alone try to reclaim it, and knowing that he had led his loyal companions to the same fate, and knowing that he had dragged Bilbo to his sure death at the paws of all kinds of horrid creatures out there in this accursed forest, was soberingly devastating.

"Damn your abominable forest and your realm and yourself from the heights of heavens above to the depths of the earth!" Thorin roared his frustration out into the cavernous halls soaring high over his head, slamming and kicking the formidable Elvish door with all the might he had, so hard that it left his palms aching and his knuckles bruised and bleeding, but the pain – the physical manifestation of it – was a welcome distraction from the guilt, sorrow, and desperation that were consuming him alive. "Damn you and your kin, you miserable tree-shagger! _I_ _mrid amrâd ursul_ _!"_

The echo reverberating all around the dungeons was immense, and it pleased Thorin a little to think that the arrogant twat of the Elvenking had to hear it. He hoped it disturbed the damnable silence of this place. It was useless but it was something and at the very least allowed him to vent out his frustration and anger and fear which he hated to admit he felt, fear for himself and his companions and for Bilbo, for Bilbo most of all even though he knew despite not wanting to know that he was most certainly too late with the sentiment.

"Why did you ever leave my side, my burglar?" Thorin muttered into the semi-darkness, hoarsely because now his throat was raw and aching along with his hands, as he pressed his forehead to the cool metal bars of the door.

He didn't expect a reply to that, but he did get one, which made him doubt his sanity for an excruciatingly long moment.

"I didn't leave anyone's side," there came a quiet hiss, a little irritated at that, from the darkness to the left of the door. "I'm feeling quite offended by the implication, Your dramatic Majesty."

A heartbeat later, there was the familiar face of the Hobbit – _his_ Hobbit – looming outside his cell, a smile on it so in contrast with the feigned annoyance in his words.

"Bilbo!" Thorin exclaimed, gripping the bars in his hands so tightly it made pain sear through his abused fingers and knuckles. He paid it no mind.

"Shhh! It's fortunate the guards are already used to you bellowing into space, otherwise you'd have brought half the kingdom down here already," Bilbo scolded, and Thorin found he had never before felt so glad to be told off by anyone.

"I thought you were dead," he muttered helplessly, voice obediently low, wishing to reach out through the bars, out to the Hobbit and just touch him, any part of him, to make sure he wasn't an apparition of his deluded, guilt-consumed mind.

"As you can see, I might be a little famished but still very much _not_ dead," Bilbo's tone softened a little as he stepped closer, Thorin unable to take his eyes off the soft smile and the soft eyes looking back at him. Now that he had had a moment to truly behold him, Thorin could see that the smile was wane and the eyes had sunken deeper into Bilbo's face. "Don't make any more of that racket, will you?"

"Bilbo…" was all he could muster, relief washing over him so intense it was overwhelming.

So overwhelming, in fact, that his legs gave in and he lowered himself heavily onto his knees, hands still clutching at the bars for support.

"Thorin?" Bilbo was kneeling on the other side of the door in a heartbeat, worry clear in his voice and his hands coming to rest on Thorin's, mindful of the bruises and gashes on his knuckles, though. "Are you alright? Are you injured?"

"I am alright now that I know you live," he murmured, on the spur of the moment reaching out between the bars of the door to take Bilbo's face into both of his hands and bring their foreheads gently together.

It was a Dwarven gesture of care and affection so he didn't know whether Bilbo was aware of the meaning behind it, but that didn't matter right now. It was a relief to just be able to have him in his arms again, alive even if paler and more exhausted than Thorin had ever seen him before. The Hobbit didn't seem to mind and then, to Thorin's relief and delight, rubbed their foreheads against each other's until the tips of their noses brushed, too. He wondered if that was perhaps Hobbits' way of showing affection.

"Thought I'd have to see the end of my days stranded here bearing the guilt of failing to protect you."

"I'm fine, Thorin, and you're not going to be stranded here if I have any say in it, don't you worry."

Bilbo's voice came in a whisper that brushed over Thorin's lips. He pressed his forehead a bit more firmly to the Hobbit's, and the latter took a cue and placed a brief kiss on his mouth, something which Thorin had very quickly got used to and hadn't been able to get enough of. Granted, there hadn't been many kisses exchanged so far, just those stolen in the impenetrable darkness of the forest during the few nights they had spent there, not quite numerous or thorough enough for the fear of not being able to stop themselves in time. It had felt like a sweet torture for Thorin, leaving him with his flesh hard and heavy straining against the lacing of his pants, and he had known it was the same for Bilbo when the Hobbit all but begged him to stop stroking that pointy ear of his, claiming that it would surely leave him in a complete mess. Thorin hadn't had to ask what kind of mess it was – he had been in a similar state, after all – so he had obliged but taken a mental note to repeat the experience once they managed to find somewhere private. Having Bilbo in an utter mess was, after all, in the list of his priorities. 

"I'm not leaving you," the Hobbit murmured presently, supporting his promise with yet another little peck on Thorin's lips.

"I'm afraid these dungeons are beyond even your outstanding skill, Master Baggins," he smiled ruefully, backing a little to be able to look into Bilbo's eyes, his hands still resting on both sides of his face, though. He couldn't release him just yet, not so soon after he had spent here days upon days being eaten alive by the thought that Bilbo should by all means be dead.

"I thought I was a _Master Burglar_ when I signed the contract," Bilbo smiled in return, one of his hands trifling with the braid framing Thorin's face. A small gesture, a mere brush of his fingertips along the woven strand, but it made Thorin shudder despite himself, too intimate a caress for a Dwarf to be subjected to in circumstances such as these.

"Are you really?" His own hands started to stroke Bilbo's cheeks, so much more hollow now that his cheekbones stood out prominently.

"I'll get you out of here, Thorin," Bilbo whispered softly, so close to Thorin's palm it was almost painfully intimate. "You and the others, I promise you. You'll see your Mountain yet."

Thorin only shook his head. He might have had hope in the beginning, but now after days or even weeks spent here, it didn't seem all that possible anymore. "You should probably get out of here before you're caught. These dungeons seem hopeless, I wouldn't wish you to be put into one."

Bilbo shook his head firmly. "I'm not going anywhere, don't you know that? I'll think of something."

With that, he leaned in and a fraction of a second later there was a brief press of his lips to Thorin's brow, warm and soft and somehow reminding Thorin of the sunshine on his face, even though he was probably the last person in the world to appreciate sunshine all that much. At least he had been, before he had met this remarkable Hobbit of his who reminded him of that radiance every single time he laid his eyes on him.

"Do you trust me?"

"With my life," Thorin nodded, brushing his thumb over the tip of Bilbo's ear and getting a faint sigh in response. It resonated deep within his stomach, evoking the now familiar longing once more.

"Then do quit this useless bellowing and try to make sure you don't break your bones trying to smash the bars of the cell. I'll need you in good shape when the time comes," Bilbo said with another sigh, a heavier one this time.

"Don't you ever worry about my shape," Thorin huffed almost despite himself. "It takes more than an iron bar to down a Dwarf. Can you stay with me for a while?"

They had scarcely spent time apart ever since the start of the journey, and Bilbo always being near, in sight, had become familiar. Thorin had hardly appreciated it at first, more annoyed and inexplicably angry with Bilbo for casting off his life so foolishly, but he still had been aware of the Hobbit's presence, in the sound of Bilbo's voice, in the tinkle of his laughter and in the barely audible soft padding of his feet, the warm and utterly different spirit of his. It was only now when Thorin had been forced to be parted from his burglar for what felt like weeks with no knowledge whether Bilbo was even alive that he could fully comprehend just how vital his presence had become to him.

Now, his small hands, one on Thorin's cheek and the other still trifling with one of his braids, were soothing, providing him with hope that had been dwindling steadily in his own heart ever since they had been captured and imprisoned here. 

"Yes, for a while," Bilbo said, settling himself by the door cross-legged, his hand ending up holding Thorin's through the bars. "I'm sorry I didn't come earlier but it proved to be a bit tricky to locate your cell. I think they might have stuffed you in the deepest one, and at first the guards hung around here almost constantly. They must have grown weary of your hollering, though."

"You see, my hollering isn't always utterly useless," Thorin smirked. "It may have helped to accomplish something at least."

His Hobbit only shook his head, exasperated but fond nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imrid amrâd ursul! - “Die a fiery death”, taken from the movie.


	16. Kíli

Strangely enough, even in the midst of this utterly bizarre fight they had with the orcs, whilst being stuck in a wine barrel swivelling and bobbing in the rapid waters of the Forest river with nauseating speed, with the wound in his leg throbbing in pain, now somewhat dulled apparently by the sheer thrill of the clash, a part of Kíli's mind was stubbornly wandering elsewhere, aiming back at the Woodland Realm they had just managed to miraculously escape from. Now that the current had become weaker, allowing the barrels to carry them smoothly enough along the rocky shores and thus requiring much less effort to navigate them, and with the orcs having fallen behind even if for the time being, Kíli had some time on his hands to have a breather and collect his bearings. The wound in his thigh was throbbing, but the searing pain had abated a little, which was perhaps a good sign, or so he hoped. His mind, however, chose to stray into territories completely unrelated to the continuation of their Quest, and it was disconcerting to say the least.

He could still clearly recall the whip of the fiery red hair as its owner lurched and swirled, slashed and kicked, loosened arrows and sliced foes with those curved Elven knives, every single motion as fluid as the swift current of a forest stream and as fast as that of a wild mountain cat. There was also the voice still ringing in Kíli's ears, melodic and silvery as the dripping of the melting ice in the spring, laughter as vibrant as a trill of some bird in the forest canopy. And then there were the eyes, the dark, moss-coloured hue of the earth itself, the shade of ivy against the dark bark of a tree. The Captain of the Woodland King's Guard was nothing short of fabulous, filled with fire and light, strong as steel and flexible as a willow, and yet there was softness about her, too, that of green moss and fertile earth and sunshine infiltrating through the lush leaves. If ever Kíli had seen perfection, that must have been her, and now this damnable river was taking him further and further away from that immaculate deity with every single passing second, and Kíli couldn't even begin to explain and comprehend the deep sadness it was evoking in him, sadness which somehow overshadowed the pain in his leg, weariness in his body, and hunger gnawing at his belly.

Tauriel fascinated him like no one ever had, and, truth be told, before this moment, he had hardly understood the way attraction worked. Back in Ered Luin, there hadn't been a lack of Dwarrowdams who fancied him even though, according to Dwarven standards of beauty, he wasn't someone considered as a particular heartthrob, too tall and lanky for a Dwarf, with barely a scruff on his chin which practically screamed of his young age. His brother, on the other hand – he was a hit among everyone, both males and females, what with his sky-blue eyes and his golden hair, intricate braids woven into his beard and moustache, the cheeky dimples in his cheeks as he grinned and his infuriatingly good common sense. Fee was slightly shorter than him and sturdier, which had always given his big brother quite an advantage as far as Dwarrowdams were concerned.

That said, Kíli had never been particularly bothered by the fact that he tended to be overlooked in favour of his brother – he wasn't overly fascinated by Dwarven females, either. There had been a few that caught his eye, but his amusement tended to run dry as soon as the ladies had shown a tad of interest in his person. Fíli used to tease him saying that being an odd mixture of a reckless fool and a daydreamer, Kíli was apparently waiting for some kind of a fair creature to descend upon him in all the splendour of an imaginary character, someone like an Elf, perhaps. Back in the day, it had caused many a brotherly brawl, with Kíli denying it was so and claiming, like he had in Lord Elrond's court, that Elvish maids weren't to his tastes, too tall and slender and cold and unreachable as stars above. It hadn't been like he had seen many Elf maids up to that moment, but doing trade in the Blue Mountains and beyond implied that every once in a while, encounters with the Fair folk took place. There had always been little love lost between their peoples, though, so those encounters – unless they were conflicts – had been as brief as possible.

Yet his brother had turned out to be right. Kíli wouldn't have admitted for the life of him that Elf maids had indeed appealed to him in some elusive way he could barely understand himself let alone explain it to anyone else, so he had kept it secret, knowing perfectly well that, for one thing, not a single Elf maid would ever consider him as a potential match, and for another thing, even if there was a crazy one that could, the current relationship between their peoples would make any match impossible anyway. Still, he could dream, right? He couldn't help gazing at them whenever he had a chance, them with their fair skin as if they were made of marble instead of flesh and blood, their utterly otherworldly eyes with a starry twinkle in them, their slim and graceful bodies that moved with odd fluid grace. They were everything that a Dwarf wasn't, and it drew Kíli like a magnet.

He hadn't been able to resist his curiosity back in Lord Elrond's realm, either, secretly watching Elvish females with unquenchable fascination. Impossible or not, he still hadn't been able to help wondering what it could be like to touch their silken hair or that marble-like skin. Would it be cold to the touch, like the stone it resembled? Or were they, after all, living creatures just like any other race he knew, warm and soft and responding? He had had to stop that kind of thinking before it led him completely astray – dreamer that he was, he was mature enough to realise futility of such fantasies.

That was, until he had come face to face with Tauriel in the tangled trees of the Enchanted Forest, her fierce nature, fiery hair and the flash of her moss-green eyes captivating him at the very first sight. He would be happy to be reasonable now, and yet it was beginning to become quite clear to him that even if he had some shreds of common sense left in that dreamy head of his, it would still be utterly impotent. At the end of the day, it had turned out precisely like Fíli had jokingly predicted – a fairy creature had indeed descended upon him out of the blue, disarming him, taking him prisoner and stealing his heart in the blink of an eye.

As the river carried them through Thranduil's Realm towards the Long Lake, he couldn't help throwing longing glances back upstream time and time again, feeling shaken to the core, confused and suddenly awfully lost and aching.

This couldn't be happening to him, and yet it seemed like it was, whether he wanted it or not.

He was startled out of his rather mixed-up state of mind, evoked both by the fiery Elf maid and the pain in his leg which was beginning to return with renewed force, by Thorin's gruff command to be paddling towards the shore. He did, his teeth clenched, ignoring Fíli's concerned looks and agitated questions – he had taken an arrow through the meaty part of his thigh, hardly the deadliest of wounds, they had no time to worry about it now.

Before he managed to reach the granite slab of the bared bedrock on the shore, though, his Uncle's voice drew his attention again.

"Where's the Hobbit?!" Thorin roared behind him, and Kíli turned back in time to see him wading back into the shallow waters, moving haphazardly over the slippery stones in his soaked heavy boots. "Where's Bilbo?"

"Bilbo?" came a startled chorus of a few other voices, Dwalin cursing under his breath as if he had just remembered about their burglar and stomping back into the river straight after Thorin.

There came no answer and Kíli saw dread written on everyone's face which reflected his own – he couldn't recall when he had seen the Hobbit last; from what he could remember Bilbo hadn't even managed to get himself into a barrel properly, and with the current and the rapids higher up the stream and the orc arrows and axes flying at them from all directions along the way… Kíli felt his breath catch in his throat, trying to prevent himself from visualising every single possible way in which Bilbo could have met his death in this blasted river, smashing his head against a jutting rock, being caught by an arrow or simply drowning sucked into one of the swift whirlpools; the Hobbit was small, it wouldn't have required much to do him in in circumstances like these.

"Bilbo!" Thorin bellowed again, waist-deep in the water, his hands clenched in fists of impotent rage as his head whipped around.

A moment later, there was a strangled yelp coming from a few feet up the stream, and then the small figure came into view from behind the bend in the river, sputtering and flailing his arms around desperately, and Kíli suddenly found he could breathe again. Thorin dashed towards the Hobbit before anyone else could react, helping himself with his arms as he waded against the current. Bilbo was in his arms a few moments later, dragged out of the deepest part of the river towards the shallower waters by the shore. He coughed and sniffed furiously as he stood there dripping wet, hands propped into his knees, looking even smaller than usually drenched to the bone and shaking like a leaf in the wind. Thorin's face was so thunderous Kíli was certain a fit of his infamous temper was imminent, even though the poor sod of a Hobbit hadn't done anything to deserve it except nearly die whilst trying to break them out of the Elvish dungeons.

To Kíli's utter amazement, though, none of what he had expected actually followed. What did was his Uncle lowering himself onto his knee before the Halfling, hands on his shoulders, and for a moment it looked like Thorin would take Bilbo's face into them. He didn't, though, just stayed there while the burglar tried to cough out the remains of the water out of his lungs.

"Bilbo?" Thorin's voice sounded agitated, a barely noticeable quiver in it reminding Kíli of their exchange back on the top of Carrock, and he frowned at the pair as the first spark of understanding started to flicker. "Are you alright?"

"'m fine, fine," Bilbo panted, patting the back of Thorin's hand in an oddly casual manner. "Just nearly got myself drowned like a wretched ferret."

Thorin didn't laugh at what had obviously been intended as a joke, nor did he say anything else in response, but the way his eyes bore into the Hobbit as Thorin swallowed and then let out a sigh spoke volumes, so much so that Kíli had to make sure his jaw wasn't gravitating towards the ground in utter astonishment. Bilbo straightened after a few more breaths, gave Thorin a winded chuckle, and the latter took it as a cue to let the Hobbit go, though one of his hands still lingered on Bilbo's shoulder, steadying him as he trudged towards the shore.

All of a sudden, it seemed as if Kíli was looking at a new version of his Uncle, one he had never seen before, and he wondered for how long _this_ had been going and for how long he had been missing it. Somehow, all at once, Kíli could easily read every single shade of emotion flickering through Thorin's familiar eyes: concern, fear, relief – Mahal's splendid beard – longing, too, the almost compulsive desire for physical contact, as if Thorin's hands itched to end up on Bilbo's shoulder, or his arm, or his hand again, if only to make sure the Hobbit was safe. Kíli could see how heavily his chest heaved beneath his soaked tunic, and he could bet anything this wasn't solely because of the exertions of the voyage along the river and the little fray with the orcs they had been in. And then there was something else in Thorin's eyes, too, something Kíli thought he could very well recognise at last, little as he had expected it. The emotion he could so very distinctly see in Thorin now resonated within his own self, only intensifying the recently discovered tug at his own heart that drew him not towards the Lonely Mountain which was their destination, but back, to, of all things, the forest.

The whole scene lasted for barely a minute, perhaps, from the moment his Uncle bellowed Bilbo's name and to the present moment when the Hobbit was safely on the shore, being fussed over by Dori and Ori as he half-heartedly tried to convince them that he was just peachy, truly. Thorin lingered not far away, gloomier than ever, his worried eyes now shooting between Bilbo and Kíli himself.

"How did I miss _that_?" he muttered to Fíli who was by his side, helping him out of the barrel. "How in the world did I miss _that_?"

"Missed what?" his brother asked with a frown, the braids in his hair and moustache, which he had always prided himself on so much, mostly undone, water dripping from it as well as from his nose. Kíli supposed he must look just as dishevelled and miserable himself.

"Uncle," Kíli said softly, "and Bilbo."

"'cause you've got your dreamy head stuffed too far up your own butt, little brother," Fíli gave him a smile which didn't quite reach his eyes and looked all too strained. "How's your leg?"

"I'm fine," Kíli sighed as nonchalantly as he could muster, though he was beginning to wonder as the dull throbbing in his thigh, which had lulled his own worry a little, was beginning to transform into jolts of pain, which he didn't particularly like. There was no way to deal with it here and now, they had to somehow get out of here first, Thorin was right, so he would have to endure it for the time being, and there was no point in worrying anyone, especially not Fee. "I'll manage."

Fíli didn't look convinced but said nothing to that. For the time being.


	17. Bilbo

Among the roaring laughter, chortling and din resounding in the House of the Master of Laketown, a sure sign of a Dwarven celebration in full swing, one distinct voice was missing. Come to think of it, it had been missing from the loud and noisy carousing on numerous occasions by now, which had been few and far between since they had left the Shire but still had taken place once in a while – his companions were Dwarves, after all, and Dwarves seemed to appreciate a good song and a bit of merriment whenever the chance offered itself as much as the next Hobbit. Before tonight, though, Thorin had at least tended to join the Company in presence if not in song and play. As of now, he had skipped the most part of the dinner and the ensuing bash, retiring to wherever it was where he could be left alone and brood quietly on his own. Perhaps, Bilbo could see the motive in such seclusion – there was too much weighing on Thorin's mind mere days before they were finally to reach the Mountain, so he must have retreated to wherever he was now to let his people feast and let loose in peace whilst there still was some peace to be found. But not for Thorin, it seemed, there wasn't.

As far as premonitions went, Bilbo had to admit he could relate to their leader's sour mood. He had been growing more anxious by the hour as they had been approaching the destination of their long journey east. It had left him twitchy, sleeping poorly and losing his appetite, an unheard-of condition for a respectable Hobbit to be in, and it was a shame, really, because for once in a lifetime there was proper food and shelter and comfort to enjoy, courtesy of the Master of Laketown. Bilbo had long reconciled with the thought that he wasn't anywhere near the standards of respectability his people held, though, and the only good thing about it was that he realised he didn't care one bit anymore. His utter lack of respectability had landed him in the middle of the group of people who had become his new family in all but blood, and he didn't have the heart to regret that.

There was also one absolutely marvellous person he had fallen in love with, foolishly, but oh, he was but a little foolish fellow in this vast dangerous world, what else could be expected of him? Resisting falling in love with Thorin was like trying to stop the rain from soaking one's clothing when it poured.

All through the banquet, Bilbo had to all but force himself to stay where he was, with the rest of the Company, instead of heading off to find Thorin no matter how much he itched to do so, to be with the ornery and so very lonely King, to offer his support if not in words then at least in presence. Sometimes, though, one's peace of mind could only be found in solitude, so Bilbo allowed his Dwarf some private time, albeit with a heart that was too heavy for the occasion. He wondered if the others sensed it too, a kind of impending doom condensing over their Company, or if it was solely his own fear of what was to come that made him unnerved most of the time now. Or maybe they did feel it, too, and that was the very reason why they wined and dined so boisterously, perhaps reckoning that if this was their last feast together, they might as well make it as raucous as Dwarven feasts went.

They did their people proud, Bilbo had to concede that – he had told them as much, to which Glóin pointed out that he had yet to see a truly large Dwarven celebration to comprehend the sheer scale and grandeur of it. And maybe he would, the Dwarf added – after all, the rightful King was almost on the doorstep of his long-lost kingdom; there had to be a feast if Thorin reclaimed his Throne, and then Bilbo would see what a Dwarven celebration was truly like with his own eyes. To which Bilbo really wished to point out that before any of them could feast in the Mountain, the matter of the dragon currently dwelling there had to be somehow resolved, but he kept his mouth shut. First of all, he didn't wish to spoil Glóin's merry mood by talking about dangers that had yet to be faced, and, secondly, the dragon was his business, for now, anyway. Whether any of them would ever have a chance to feast at Thorin's coronation currently depended on Bilbo alone and his success at finding and smuggling the King's Jewel from under the nose of the dragon, which, to his genuine distress, grew increasingly more real the closer they came to the Lonely Mountain.

It was only closer to midnight when most of his companions were on the sure path to getting completely sloshed – making him wonder, too, how in the world they were going to raise themselves come dawn tomorrow – when Bilbo couldn't stand the gnawing restlessness any longer. He wished, desperately so, for what he had unexpectedly found somewhere along this Quest of theirs, the feeling of belonging, and that could only be provided by the one person who had actually made him look back at his life and realise the extent of his comfortable and very much respected loneliness and then somehow added warmth and purpose and joy to his existence. If he was going to be incinerated or lacerated or devoured by a dragon in the next few days, he really wished to spend the remainder of them feeling wanted and welcome. At least, he really hoped that he would be wanted as he quietly left the feasting hall and his warm place by Bofur's side to seek Thorin, wherever that lonesome Dwarf was biding his time.

He didn't have to go far or search for long – Thorin was sitting on a wooden bench out on the balcony of the upper story of the building, his gaze fixed on the hulk of the Lonely Mountain looming on the horizon to the south. Ever so softly, Bilbo padded towards him, shivering in the light but chilly breeze blowing across the lake and snuggling deeper into his coat, the humidity in the air making the late autumn night almost bitterly cold. He stopped beside Thorin, the Dwarf giving him a glance of acknowledgement with a softest of smiles ghosting across his face. It made Bilbo's heart warm just by looking at it, the emotion so open and yet so brittle, something he would have deemed virtually impossible, something he could never have expected to see on Thorin's face half a year ago when Thorin had seemed to him a hero come from legends themselves, too magnificent and illustrious to be prone to emotions simple mortals experienced and to such fragile smiles.

Bilbo smiled back, just as mildly, suddenly recalling his conversation with Bofur long ago, at the very beginning of their journey, when the miner had told him that Thorin was way too strong for his own good, taking so much onto his shoulders and dutifully carrying the burden along, without a word of complaint and a sign of weakness. Bilbo desperately hoped that what he could see in Thorin's eyes now was that very sign of it, because not all weakness was bad. Sometimes, the quiet appreciation of not being alone and need for support were the best kinds, neither of which in his opinion was shameful or humiliating.

For a long while, they just remained there, Thorin sitting on the bench and gazing at the Mountain that had occupied all of his mind for so long, his home and his kingdom belonging to him by birth right, and Bilbo standing by his side, taking in the whole scenery, trying to absorb it all, every little detail, the way the stars reflected in the mostly still, glassy surface of the lake, the wet, fishy smell permeating the air, the way the dark broken line of the mountains stretched over the horizon on the other shore. The beauty of this harsh northern land was breath-taking, and he wished desperately that one day he could sit down and write a book which described it. It would hardly do it justice, but he wished he could try to do it all the same, that he would be _alive_ to do it.

"You worry too much, Thorin," he finally spoke, his voice very clear in the stillness around them. "Can't be good for your health."

From beside him, there came a quiet huff, which was the desired effect. Bilbo turned his head to face Thorin when he felt the Dwarf's gaze shift to him.

"It comes with the territory," he sighed. "One can't help worrying when one leads his closest and most loyal companions to what might be their death. I'm not worried for myself; I've always tried to do right by my people and some say I have managed it with a fair amount of success. Ered Luin is left in the good hands of my sister should I meet my end here, but thinking that any of these Dwarves should come to harm because of my ambition…"

"From what I know, it was their choice to follow you, no one held a sword over their heads to force them, did they?" Bilbo asked softly, all too aware of Thorin mentioning his concern only for the Dwarves.

But then again, what was there to be surprised about? Bilbo had come by his own accord, too, it wasn't like anyone had twisted his arm to make him. Thorin didn't have to be burdening himself with the fate of a fake burglar obliged by a contract no matter what kind of little silly affair they had going here, did he? Bilbo wasn't a young naïve tween to believe that, should they both survive this, the King under the Mountain would entertain any serious thoughts in relation with some commonfolk Hobbit from distant lands, even if for some reason he wished to. They belonged in different realities, and Bilbo knew it well enough. He _did_. But oh, did it hurt. Somewhere along the way, he must have missed that crucial moment when a stop could be put to it all, nipping any kind of feelings he might have developed in the bud. But then again, this was perhaps where he hadn't really been given a choice – it had taken two solid months of Thorin's constant glowering at him from a distance and that bone-crushing hug at the top of Carrock, and then Bilbo had suddenly known with terrifying clarity that it was too late for him to get out of it.

"Aye, the choice was theirs to make," Thorin nodded presently and yet another sigh escaped past his lips and briefly clouded in the still night air.

There was a moment of silence again and then, all of a sudden, there were warm fingers slipping thorough his, the gesture so careful and gentle it made Bilbo startle with surprise. He turned to look at Thorin again, only to be met with another smile, just as warm as his hand, but sad and wistful, too, which made something inside him twist with bitterness. Here they went, Bilbo had come here to make it better for both of them, and look where this was going.

"Yet it seems we didn't give _you_ much of a choice," Thorin murmured softly.

Unexpectedly, Bilbo found himself so lost for words that all he could do was stare back at the King for a few speechless moments with a frown on his brow, trying to comprehend what in the world the Dwarf even meant.

"What are you talking about? I had plenty of opportunities to get rid of your noisy and troublesome Company, could have turned back pretty much anywhere along the way, could have stayed in Rivendell, could have sneaked away when you were captured by goblins back in the Misty Mountains, could have remained at Beorn's with his cows and dogs and blooming meadows. I didn't do it then, and I'm not planning to do it anytime soon. I'm here with you till the end, whatever it might be."

"What makes you do it, Bilbo? You owe us nothing, never mind the contract, it was just a formality; but even the contract didn't oblige you to risk your own life along the way to save mine, and you've done it so many times already."

Bilbo shrugged with a smile which felt both delighted and helpless and sad all at the same time, the heat of Thorin's palm against his distractingly pleasant and the way Thorin's thumb brushed along his index finger positively titillating.

"Because you've become very dear to me," he said softly, the weight of the confession seeming to leave his shoulders but somehow simultaneously making everything so much more complicated. He wasn't sure whether either of them needed this sort of complications days before they were to reach the Mountain at last, but the words couldn't be unsaid and, truth be told, he was glad for it.

There was something in Thorin's eyes at that moment, a fleeting vulnerability Bilbo had never really seen there before, and then the hand holding his tightened, beckoning him to step in front of the Dwarf. Bilbo obeyed, almost helplessly so, stopping between Thorin's thighs and meeting his upturned gaze openly.

"You don't have to worry about me at least," he murmured. "Rest assured, I'm well aware of the dangers ahead and I'm doing this willingly."

With a huff that sounded all too bitter, Thorin shook his head and then his arms wrapped around Bilbo's waist, pulling him closer until he ended up with Thorin's face buried into his for once in a lifetime full belly. The sensation, complemented with the warmth of Thorin's breath, echoed with a pleasant lurch in its depths, turning Bilbo's knees into jelly efficiently fast.

"How can I do that if it's _you_ I worry about the most, my little burglar?" Thorin's voice was muffled, but there was enough dismay and helplessness in it to make the question speak volumes, too, just like his own confession that had come a bit earlier.

With a shudder, Bilbo closed his eyes, letting his arms slowly wrap around Thorin's shoulders and his fingers bury themselves into the dark shock of his hair, holding him there against his body firmly in place, his breath coming out erratic and quivering.

He hadn't wanted to go back home for quite a while, hadn't even really thought about his cosy Bag End for weeks, Bilbo suddenly realised, and now, with frightening clarity, he also knew that Bag End wasn't really his home, not anymore if it had ever been it at all. _This_ was his home, Thorin's sturdy arms around him and his own fingers combing through the tangled strands of hair, the realisation as heart-warming as it was devastating because it seemed all too likely that he could lose his home in a matter of days, after so many years of not even being aware he had missed one sorely.

"Thorin…" he whispered, leaning down to press his lips to the top of that dishevelled head both because it was a gesture of care and because he didn't seem to be able to stand on his own anymore.

"The irony of it is all too bitter," the voice came from the region of his midsection at the same time as the arms around him tightened even more, until it was on the verge of uncomfortable, but Bilbo didn't protest. It wasn't close enough for him, either. "Now that it is too late to change anything…"

"I wouldn't have anything we have been through changed," Bilbo said, and he meant every single word of it. "It has brought us here, and it is the best thing which has happened to me ever since my parents' death. _You_ are the best thing that has happened to me, Thorin."

"I only wish I had met you earlier, Bilbo Baggins." The hands on Bilbo's back had started an excruciatingly slow caress, rubbing along his spine. "It has been such a privilege to know you."

Bilbo closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the top of Thorin's head as he breathed in the scent of his thoroughly washed hair. Sweet as the confession was, it had sounded too much like a farewell for Bilbo's liking, but then again, it might as well be, and Thorin had the right of it – the irony was bitter indeed.

"I'm intending to leave Kíli here," Thorin suddenly said, and even despite being muffled against Bilbo's stomach, his voice sounded heavy, just as his head felt heavy against Bilbo's body, just as his heart felt heavy in is chest.

"He'll be outraged," Bilbo murmured, surprised at first but knowing this had been coming ever since Kíli had been wounded. He couldn't really tell how serious it was, but his leg pained him an awful lot no matter how hard the young Dwarf had been trying to conceal it.

"He will, but he'll have to obey if the command comes from his King and not from his Uncle," Thorin sighed. "I'm not sure he will understand it tomorrow, but he might later, especially if none of us come back from that Mountain. His wound, grievous as it is, might still prove to have come at the rightest of times."

"You're a good person, Thorin," Bilbo said as he pressed a kiss to the top of the Dwarf's head. "A good leader and a good uncle and you'll make a good King, I'm sure."

Thorin didn't reply to that, but the tightening of his arms around Bilbo, arms which almost enveloped him from his shoulders all the way down to his hips, told Bilbo all he cared to know at the moment. He was wanted and he was welcome and his company was appreciated. He couldn't really wish for more.

"Let's go," he finally suggested. "It's unhealthy to sit here in this cold and stare at the Mountain we're about to see close and personal all too soon."

Thorin agreed with a hum, first slowly unwrapping himself from around Bilbo and then leading him back into the building, his hand firmly clasped on Bilbo's cold one.

The room they were offered here was spacious and warm but still empty as the rest of the Company weren't planning on hitting the sack this early in the evening while there still was food to be eaten and ale and beer and mead to be drunk. Bilbo might have entertained a thought of intimacy with Thorin after the events in Mirkwood and their reunion back when Thorin had still been imprisoned in the Elven dungeons, his desire for the Dwarf flaring with the force which had taken aback even himself and was still kindling quietly in the depths of his belly. This was perhaps the moment most suitable for it, and he also had a suspicion that the rest of the Company might just be staying away for the same reason, to give the two of them some time together. Yet it turned out both he and Thorin felt drained, too worn out with their own worries and concerns each to be eager to engage in any sort of bedplay. Instead, Bilbo just sank onto his bedroll in the corner closest to the low-burning fire and beckoned Thorin to follow his example. The latter did, kneeling beside him at first and looking, strangely and unexpectedly, as if he didn't really know what to do now, apparently preoccupied by his own honesty and the display of vulnerability out there on the balcony and whatever other oppressive thoughts were burdening him.

_Too strong for his own good_ , echoed in Bilbo's head once more, and he took Thorin's hand and pulled him down gently to make up his mind for him.

"Lay down your head and I'll sing you a lullaby," he smiled up at the Dwarf, hoping it was convincing enough to make Thorin let go of all his bloody reservations and simply allow himself a few moments of peace.

"Will you really?" he asked, an odd mixture of hopefulness, amusement and doubt in his eyes, though, to Bilbo's relief, there was not much of the latter.

"Yes, we Hobbits are quite good at all kinds of fine songs, lullabies included. Now come here, give yourself some rest at last, will you?"

With a barely noticeable twitch of lips, a smile still too soft for all those hard lines on his face, Thorin did what he was told to do, for once in a lifetime not arguing or offering his opinion. He stretched himself on the quilt and blanket covered floor, his head in Bilbo's lap and his dark blue eyes – as dark as the autumn evening sky outside – gazing up into his expectantly, so open and unguarded that Bilbo found it hard to collect his thoughts and utter a single syllable for a while, lost there in the affection and trust they radiated.

Before he started singing, he buried his fingers into the clean, silky strands, mostly black but with many grey tresses running through them like silver would through the rock. Thorin's eyes closed almost shut for a heartbeat and then opened again to fix on Bilbo's face expectantly. When he started to brush through his hair, untangling the few knots here and there and rubbing his scalp with his fingertips, the sigh which brushed past Thorin's lips was shuddering and the way his larynx bobbed as he swallowed told Bilbo clearly enough about how exactly the caress felt. Over their journey, he had had enough opportunities to learn that touching a Dwarf's hair was a highly intimate act, considered inappropriate in the broad daylight and allowed only to the closest kin, and while Thorin might still be tolerating his fingers in his hair simply because Bilbo came from a different culture and thus was not familiar enough with Dwarven traditions, the look in his eyes and the hitch in his breath at the very least signified it was a pleasurable experience all the same.

And then Bilbo began to sing, the silence around – because they were in the opposite wing of the house from the gang of rowdy Dwarves – allowed his voice to drift softly and quietly, the way a lullaby should.

Thorin's eyes slipped shut somewhere along the way as Bilbo's voice filled the empty room and Bilbo lost himself in the silken sensation of Thorin's hair against his fingers, the solid weight of his body in his lap, and the sight of his face, open and oddly still, as the song poured out of him, from the very depths of his soul, and he hoped Thorin could hear everything he had put into it. The Dwarf remained motionless for a long while after the last word of it had faded into silence, and then opened his eyes again, black lashes a stark contrast against the rich blue of his irises. 

"Thank you for it," there came a softest of whispers, which pulled Bilbo gently back out of his fascination with Thorin's eyes. Then there was Thorin's hand on his own, gently untangling it out of his hair and bringing it to his mouth instead, followed by a firm press of his lips to the very centre of Bilbo's palm.

"I think I needed it myself. Didn't even realise how much until now," Bilbo nodded, relocating his hand to the Dwarf's cheek instead, the coarse touch of his beard against the spot where just a moment ago his lips had rested making it tingle.

"It didn't sound like it could belong to the Hobbit lore, though."

"It doesn't," Bilbo agreed. "Hobbits rarely have songs of diamonds and pearls and long lonely roads ahead. I don't really know its origin, but it seemed suitable and it is a sweet melody if nothing else."

"Aye, our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thoughts," Thorin murmured, eyes still full of that unspoken confession, voice ever so intimate, and the sudden sentiment took Bilbo aback. It wasn't that he considered Thorin to be an impassive and cold-blooded leader as he had thought of him back at the very beginning of their journey, he had had a chance to learn well enough that Dwarves were indeed an artistic and passionate sort and always had a song or a melody ready, but it was still unexpected to hear Thorin speak about something so tenderly touching.

For the song was indeed very sweet, and Bilbo's thoughts as he had sung it, albeit filled with affection, were grave. He could tell that so were Thorin's.

Then, slowly, the Dwarf rolled onto his side, arms coming to rest around Bilbo's waist once more, and buried his face in Bilbo's stomach. They did not talk of anything else for a while, with Bilbo brushing his fingers through the dark mane of hair peppered here and there with grey strands as Thorin seemingly focused on the only task at hand, that being breathing Bilbo's scent in and out evenly. When he thought the Dwarf must have fallen asleep, though, Thorin shifted, propping himself on one elbow on the quilted bedding and bringing his face to Bilbo's so that their foreheads touched in that Dwarven gesture he had seen others doing so many times by now. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his nose against Thorin's long and pointy one, hoping he could somehow convey everything which was whirling inside his soul. He only hoped the song he had sung had managed to translate whatever words he still chose to withhold eloquently enough.

"There will be other times, Bilbo, more peaceful times," Thorin whispered against his lips, voice hoarse with emotion. "With joy and laughter—"

"Thorin…"

He wanted to tell him to stop, not to tempt the fate and the relative good fortune which had followed them so far, tell him not to imagine those painfully enticing dreams of what might never come to pass, tell him not to draw those pictures for him lest he lose all his resolve now when it was really way too late to change anything, when all of them seemed to be carried forth by powers which were stronger than them, powers which had been set in motion and wouldn't stop by their own accord until they deemed it timely.

Thorin didn't seem to want to stop, though, because his hand rose to cup Bilbo's cheek, fingers rough and calloused but still at the same time so unbearably tender. Bilbo swallowed helplessly, pinching his eyelids shut and feeling as if he was being unravelled slowly, bit by bit by the raw quality of Thorin's voice and the fierce passion in it, desperately wishing to believe that what he was saying could one day come to pass.

"Times where there won't be any danger looming over us, just safety and security and you'll be sitting beside me with a cup of tea in one hand and your pipe in the other, telling me about all those confounding flowers as the evening sunshine lights the trees on the mountainside below us, all the way to Dale—"

"But it's only now that we have," Bilbo whispered in reply, dismayed, pressing the pad of his thumb to Thorin's lips to prevent him from building more castles in the air, sweet and alluring as they were.

He was all too aware of the fact that they could have done so much more for each other since the moment they had met, that he wanted to do so much more, to give Thorin more, himself and his love and everything else which came with it, and that now there wasn't enough time for anything really, just to get as much sleep and rest as possible and to move on, reach the Mountain and fulfil what they had planned to do.

The wince that crossed Thorin's face – he could almost feel it, the ache and the longing and a silent plea to _please_ be safe. And then there were warm dry lips pressing to his own in a close-mouthed kiss, not a kiss of desire but that of reassurance. This time, there were no promises murmured into the intimacy of it, there was nothing but the kiss itself and the warmth of Thorin's palm on his cheek and yet it still managed to speak and tell Bilbo all he wished to hear.

"Rest, Thorin," he said. "We've got a long road tomorrow."

Thorin did, surprisingly falling asleep before Bilbo, who remained awake well into the night and was still awake when the rest of the Company began to wrap in, most of them properly and happily drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song I'm referring to here is Secret Garden's 'Sleepsong', if anyone needs a soundtrack, here it goes https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T19_-ycPYjk


	18. Thorin

It was in the small hours of the night when Thorin's watch came to an end, and he was substituted by Balin, a pipe in one hand and a sword in the other. The older Dwarf was heading for the rocky outcrop which Thorin had previously occupied and gave him a nod of acknowledgement.

"All good?" Balin asked in his pleasantly quiet, now somewhat drowsy, voice and Thorin blinked affirmatively, patting him on the shoulder as he passed.

He had managed to take a few steps towards the camp, when Balin called him again. Thorin turned, bemused to see his old friend and advisor looking a little out of sorts, as if he was in doubt over something.

"What is it, Balin?"

The Dwarf sighed, giving Thorin a mild little smile, and the eyes fixed on him were knowing but so very sad. "You need each other, Thorin," he finally said, his gaze darting back to the camp, and Thorin didn't have to ask him to know who he was talking about. "Spend what precious time you have until daybreak together."

He didn't wait for Thorin's reply to that, turning away with a grave grimace on his face and heading to the designated lookout post, leaving him to stand in the middle of the barren rocky ground between the cliff and their camp with his fists clenching and unclenching. Balin knew what he was talking about – this night might as well be his and Bilbo's last chance to see each other alive and well, and they were well aware of it. Balin hadn't had the luxury of such foreknowledge many years ago when the dragon had come to scorch to ashes half of his family, and Thorin suspected that was where the gravity in his kind eyes had come from.

Besides, the old Dwarf was right – he tended to be right almost every time, the best advisor Thorin could have possibly wished for – Bilbo and he hadn't really spent nearly enough time together these past few days ever since they had left Laketown. Granted, there had been things to do, what with hauling their baggage and finding their way to the mountainside where the hidden door must be, and then locating it, and they had been pressed for time.

Still, that wasn't the main reason. The main one was Thorin's own cowardice, loath as he was to admit it, the abject fear of getting even more attached to Bilbo and then losing him, and he knew that should it happen, it would be his fault alone. The Hobbit could tell him as much as he liked that he was here with Thorin and his Company out of his own choice, but Thorin knew better than that – the Lonely Mountain was why Bilbo had been brought here, and the Lonely Mountain was Thorin's personal compulsion. But for it, the Hobbit would still be leading his peaceful life back in his beloved Shire, away from Thorin and his dangerous ambitions.

That said, he didn't know how it was possible to grow more attached to someone he had already fallen in love with. The deed had been done, Thorin knew Bilbo was his One, and he also knew that, somehow, improbably, Bilbo had come to love him, too. They didn't have to say the words to understand that. Even so, Thorin still had a suspicion that those words might only make the whole situation even harder to bear, and if Bilbo ended up in his arms again, with his hands fluttering over his throat or tugging at his braids the way he seemed to be fond of, he was bound to lose it completely. Lose his resolve to go on and endanger Bilbo for the sake of his Mountain, or lose himself in the gentle presence and tenderest of lips and go on with it, take him, make love to him, and Thorin wasn't sure he would be able to cope later if that would have been their farewell to each other. He wanted it desperately, and a part of him knew Balin was right – there was still some time left, time they could dedicate solely to each other because there might be nothing for the two of them in the future, but that other part, the one which had been fuelling his stubbornness and determination, was all but screaming at him that this wasn't a good idea. It wasn't good because he would surely have to pay for it, with grief and pain and suffering at a later date. The cowardice in him begged him to leave everything as it was, not to allow himself yet another painful taste of what it might have been like had he not been the King without a crown and a kingdom going to send the one he loved to his sure death because the one he loved had foolishly signed a contract and was determined to fulfil what was asked of him.

Thorin had been running away from it his whole life, couldn't he run just for a little while longer now? Leave it as it was, with a promise of safety and security and flowery meadows he knew he most certainly couldn't keep? Preserve his heart from being shattered to pieces again should Bilbo come to harm because of him?

The problem was, he also knew that it would be shattered one way or another, whether he opened his heart now or never opened it at all, it was too late to save it anyway. Bilbo had somehow found his way into it long ago, and would stay there no matter what happened next, a night spent or not spent together wouldn't change anything. Balin was right, they needed each other, even if for the last taste of the happiness that was still nothing but a gossamer promise which had barely been voiced out loud so far, and nothing more than that.

There were a few more hours until the sun would rise and they would have to move on at speed to reach the door by nightfall with some time to spare and haul all their provision closer to the sheer face of the mountain above which it was nicked away, so Thorin was determined to let Bilbo rest for as much as possible. The others would head for the door early in the morning, and he was planning to stay here with the Hobbit until he woke up, which perhaps did give him a chance to at least hold Bilbo close to his heavy and aching heart while he slept. He walked back to the camp towards the place Balin had occupied just to stop in his tracks as his eyes fell on the empty bedroll. It wasn't the bedroll itself which made him halt but who slept beside it, curled on his side under a shabby blanket, which didn't seem to be doing much at keeping the Hobbit warm and comfortable.

Thorin stood there in uncertainty, aware of the only thing he wanted to do just then – to lay down beside Bilbo and nestle him in his arms until the Hobbit stopped shivering. Balin must have been sleeping close to him, which had managed to keep him warm enough, but now with the old Dwarf gone for the watch, Bilbo was left pretty much on his own on the other side of the camp from the rest of the sleeping Dwarves. Thorin wondered whether this had been Balin's plan all along – to keep Bilbo away from the group so that Thorin could join him sometime through the night when his part of the watch was over. It sounded a bit too far-fetched for the rest of the Company to concern themselves with how much time Thorin would manage to steal for himself and Bilbo, but then again, Balin had lost a lot of things to the dragon, too, so he had to know the value of the precious time spent with the loved ones before the face of great danger, which he had never been given a chance to have for himself.

The thought made Thorin wince and frown for as the moment approached, he was feeling less and less inclined to put the Hobbit at that much risk. He knew he would have to, all the same – they weren't here on a pleasure hiking trip but to reclaim his homeland, and finding and smuggling the Arkenstone was what Bilbo was supposed to do, but it didn't mean that Thorin had to like it. He had doubted it in the beginning, not trusting the Hobbit's abilities in the first place, and now he was less than eager to put Bilbo at such peril even though his abilities had been proven to all of them.

A sigh, deep and heavy, brushed past Thorin's lips as he looked down at his burglar's petite frame wrapped into the blanket which was pretty much useless here at the altitude and with the approaching winter, as he wondered not for the first time as to how in the world he had ended up like this, with the warmth in his heart and a light tremor in his strong, steady hands, hands of a warrior king which were intimate with holding a sword and the act of killing things that breathed and bled. Right now, though, it wasn't bloodlust which was making them tremble, but an utterly different kind of lust, spiced with too much longing and tenderness which threatened to choke him if he didn't let it out in one way or another.

Well, their journey was nearly over, Thorin mused, and in the next few days they would either be exceptionally lucky, or they would be dead. Most probably the latter, given the odds, so maybe he could allow one single weakness at the end of it all.

Quietly, so as not to disturb the rest of his sleeping companions, Thorin stepped closer and lowered himself down onto the bedroll Balin had occupied. The quilt he had used was just as threadbare as the one Bilbo was trying to find warmth in, but he was certain that under two layers of it and a sturdy Dwarrow beside him, there would be enough heat to keep the Hobbit comfortable enough until morning. He stretched himself on his side, pulling the second quilt over Bilbo's body and then carefully, oh ever so carefully, he let his hand rest on the Hobbit's slender shoulder, moving closer but not so close as to wake him up and definitely not as close as Thorin himself wished to be. He still wasn't quite certain this was the right place for intimacy, soundly though Dwarves tended to sleep.

It turned out it could be and it was, though, no matter what his thoughts on it were – because, suddenly, he didn't seem to have any control whatsoever over what was happening, feeling as helpless as the last autumn leaf caught in the relentless winter wind, carried onwards and onwards until the wind decided to cease and let him be. 

Bilbo must have been awake for a while because once Thorin's hand ended up on him, he twitched beneath it and there was a sharp breath muffled into his cover. Thorin moved on without thinking, really, the only wish he was aware of being that he wanted to make Bilbo comfortable and warm and safe and that he wanted to be close, closer than they were now, wanted that little frame snuggled against his chest and wanted his nose buried into the fair, now longish curls. He did it by pure instinct, and in that instinct, there was tenderness Thorin had long forgotten he possessed and was capable of.

Bilbo did end up with his back pressed against Thorin's chest and with Thorin's nose in his tousled hair, his arms wrapped around his burglar's blanket-covered body. Bilbo didn't resist, but Thorin felt him tense up and heard his breath become faster and shallower. He could also feel Bilbo's heartbeat beneath his palm, as fast as if he was indeed a small terrified bunny Beorn had dubbed him, and perhaps he had every right and reason to be – after all, he was just a small Hobbit about to face a fire drake and with a Dwarven King sneaking up on him in the night on the eve of it. Gods knew what he might be thinking about Thorin's intentions when Thorin himself didn't quite know his own intentions well enough.

"It's all right," he murmured against the top of the Hobbit's head, deliberately making himself sound soothing. To his surprise, he succeeded in it quite well, his voice coming out unusually soft. "It's all right, Bilbo."

The sigh Bilbo let out was still shaky and his heart was still hammering way too fast for Thorin's liking, but he also felt the Hobbit press himself into his body, which could perhaps suggest that his quickened breathing and heartrate were due to another cause rather than anxiety or fear or something else equally unpleasant.

The subtle movement felt like a punch in his gut, as if all air had suddenly been sucked out of his lungs, but it also felt like the most marvellous thing which had ever happened to him in his entire life. For a while, Thorin just lay there, short of breath, tightening his hold on Bilbo's body as if trying to keep hm there, keep him beside himself, keep him where he could feel his heartbeat and his breath and the softness of his hair against his nose and lips, keep him there in safety away from the cold and the evil; wanting him, too, the very essence of him longing to keep Bilbo where he was. The disconcerting thought of the dragon sleeping inside the Mountain, too close for comfort even though they were still a day's journey away from it, only made him wrap his arm tighter around the Hobbit, every single cell in his body seeming to rebel against the very idea of letting him into Smaug's lair.

_Oh, Mahal_ , he thought to himself, eyelids tightly pinched as he inhaled the scent of Bilbo's hair, faint but sweet, smelling of the tobacco he was fond of, even though he couldn't say how it was possible because the Hobbit had run out of it a long time ago. But the scent still seemed to linger about him, or perhaps it was Thorin's imagination making familiar associations for him, reminding him of grassy lawns, flowers and the buzz of bees in the air. He pulled it in through his nostrils as if trying to memorise it, memorise it along with the feeling of Bilbo's body against his own.

When after a while Bilbo shifted in his hold, Thorin relaxed it enough to allow the Hobbit some freedom of movement, and the next moment he was both delighted and taken aback to see and feel him roll onto his other side until he lay almost nose to nose with Thorin. His eyes seemed to be bigger in the darkness of the night, with the faint light of stars reflecting in them, and it was all Thorin could do not to close his own eyes and lean in and…

He couldn't even say why he was still trying to resist it now when there really was no point in it, whether it was his attempt to protect Bilbo or to protect himself, from promises he couldn't keep and from the heartache which seemed all too likely now that they were in the shadow of the Mountain, or from making memories which would certainly undo him should he be the only one left in their possession when all was over.

Instead, he tucked the quilts more snugly around Bilbo's shoulders once more, the Hobbit watching him with those piercing eyes of his almost unblinking, and Thorin couldn't help but lower his own gaze under the intensity of his look.

"You don't have to go down there tomorrow," he finally murmured, the words feeling both hard and easy on his tongue. "I know there's a contract you signed, but…" he faltered when Bilbo shook his head lightly.

"This has long stopped being about any contract, you should know that much yourself," Bilbo whispered so quietly that even Thorin being as close as he was could barely hear him. "I'll go there with or without any contract, by my own will because I promised to help you and I really wish to do so, Thorin."

"Aren't you afraid of it?"

"I am terrified," the Hobbit huffed in that manner of his, some sort of dark humour which wasn't funny at all underlaying his words. "But I'll still do it, for you and for the others."

Wanting to say so many things but unable to force a single sound through his throat, all Thorin was capable of was pulling Bilbo to himself. The Hobbit moved closer willingly until he ended up lying flush against Thorin, with his nose and lips at the very hollow of his throat, his warm breath on his skin sending shivers all over Thorin's body. But that wasn't all of it because the next heartbeat he felt Bilbo's arm finding its way through the tangle of quilts to his waist and wrapping around it, his hand clamping on his side almost spasmodically, pulling Thorin even closer.

He had to bite his lip hard in order to prevent himself from letting out a groan of what might well be both pleasure and pain, the mixture of emotions threatening to tear him up.

"I promise you we won't leave you alone down there," he whispered hoarsely, muffling his words against Bilbo's ear. "Whatever I can do to protect you if things go wrong, I will, Bilbo, I swear."

"I know," came a somewhat strangled reply, and a moment later there were lips pressed to the base of his throat, hot and moist and persistent, moving up and up in a trail of erratic kisses, up over his larynx and across the underside of his chin and up still until they found Thorin's open and ready and it was good their mouths closed on each other's the next moment because there was a groan rumbling through Thorin's throat and being effectively muffled by Bilbo's lips, hot and wet on his own. Then there was a tongue slithering against his, Bilbo's hand suddenly not squeezing on his side anymore but entangled into his hair instead, gripping him in place so firmly Thorin felt all but disoriented for a long wonderful while.

He hadn't quite expected such eagerness even though he probably should have, the two of them dragging this sweetest of tortures for weeks now, surviving on looks exchanged, subtle touches here and there and a few kisses stolen, all too few, Thorin realised now as his own hands fumbled with the quilts Bilbo was wrapped in. having finally found their way in, they squeezed on his slim hips and pulled Bilbo flush against himself, evoking a choked gasp muffled against his own open mouth in response. The sound resonated with a searing flash in his groin, the heat spreading from there to consume him whole, and oh gods in Arda, there was no going back from here, not with Bilbo entangling their legs so that his thigh ended up pressed between Thorin's, rubbing against his erection knowingly enough, purposefully, and all Thorin could do in response was clamp his own fingers on Bilbo's behind and push him even closer, seeking more contact, more friction, more…

And then Bilbo laughed, the sound ever so soft landing on Thorin's flushed lips and cheeks in light puffs of air, so quiet and yet still so full of knowing glee. There were more kisses then, light fluttering ones landing on his nose and mouth askance, on his cheeks and eyes, kisses feeling both teasing and soothing at the same time, and Thorin could not comprehend for the life of him what was so funny about all this which was suddenly making Bilbo try to muffle his quiet chuckles. Thorin didn't want to laugh, by Mahal, he wanted to get his hands on this insolent Hobbit of his, tear off his clothing, tumble him over and take him, make him scream his own name at the heights of pleasure and desire, take him from behind and into his mouth and into his hand, just take him whole and—

And then, all of a sudden, instead of a thigh, there were deft fingers clawing at the waistband of his pants, struggling with the ties at his crotch. It only lasted for a few short moments, and before Thorin could quite comprehend what was happening, Bilbo's warm hand closed on him, with care but still confidently so, _knowingly_. Thorin felt himself still under the touch of that soft, oh so soft, hand, barely breathing as he was loath to miss a single moment of it, barely able to believe this was really happening. Of all possible scenarios he had entertained over the past several months, this was something he hadn't quite imagined, Bilbo taking this first step, taking him into the hold of his hand, gripping him so wonderfully, sliding his fingers over his shaft so deliciously slowly, teasing the flushed, tender skin under its tip so lightly and then smearing the moisture that was already oozing out of it with one sure motion of his thumb. 

Thorin couldn't help himself, he did groan, shakily, and a moment later there were the softest of lips on his own, kissing his open mouth again and again with quiet soothing shushing, which did pretty much nothing in terms of soothing him but still felt as if it was about to melt him into an aching, yearning, pleading puddle of a Dwarf. If he had known Hobbits could be like this…

For a while, as Bilbo went on with the slow but firm stroking, all Thorin could do was press his forehead against the Hobbit's and simply breathe, each trembling inhale and exhale dragged out of him by the pull of that marvellous hand on his throbbing flesh. Bilbo's breathing matched his, just as shaky and laborious, and that was what brought Thorin back to the present moment – he couldn't and shouldn't be the only one wanting this just so badly. Slowly, carefully so as not to interrupt what Bilbo was doing, he let one of his own hands leave its cosy place on the Hobbit's butt, only belatedly realising he must have squeezed it so hard it was sure to leave bruises in the shape of his fingers on that pale skin come morning. The thought was even more thrilling, if it was possible at all, and Thorin wished, wished desperately and fiercely, that there would be such mornings, mornings when he could enjoy the sight of the marks his hands had left on Bilbo's bare behind from the comfort of their bed, with both of them alive and safe and together.

The buttons on Bilbo's trousers didn't prove to be as tricky as the ties on his own, thankfully, and a few moments later he felt Bilbo twitch against him, a brief stumble of his hand on his cock, a quiet gasp torn out of his mouth and landing onto Thorin's face, and there it finally was, swollen and throbbing and leaking in his hand. There had to be some truth in those sayings about large feet and all that, Thorin remarked in a dazed manner, because Bilbo's cock felt snug enough in his large hand, smaller than his own but quite impressive for a lad of Bilbo's stature, or maybe it was simply that he knew very little about Hobbit anatomy. It didn't matter, though, because, suddenly, there were lips on his own again, and it took Thorin a long moment to realise through the fog of desire clouding his head that Bilbo was actually pleading him, his voice quiet but desperate, the string of gasping, _'Thorin, please'_ landing hot on his face as Bilbo's pelvis shot towards his hand in fast minute thrusts.

"Shhh," Thorin shushed as he pushed himself a bit closer to Bilbo to be able to press their foreheads as well as erections together and wrap his hand around them both, not letting Bilbo's hand go, either. "I'm here, _ghivashel_ , I'm here."

They moved on from there, nothing but the synchronous motion of hands and a few fumbled kisses drowned out by their erratic, ragged breaths, and it was over soon, all too soon because Thorin would have liked a different scenario for them, not snuggled here amongst scorched rocks under threadbare quilts, trying to muffle whatever noises were made not to wake up everyone around, but elsewhere warm and cosy and light enough, to drag it on for longer, to enjoy every single moment of intimacy, to feast his eyes on every single part of his Hobbit's slender body, to make him cry out again and again and again until his throat was sore and his voice raw. But this was how it was, and Thorin knew he had to be grateful to gods for this much, for this chance that was granted to him, a chance to have and to hold and to love and to be loved in return, late as it had been given to him.

He fell asleep with Bilbo's light body almost sprawled on top of his, his arms coiled around him, their legs entangled, his nose tickled by those feather-light ringlets of hair and with the sensation of Bilbo's heart beating steadily against his own chest and his breath brushing soft and gentle against his jaw. Ironically, he had never felt more at home anywhere than he was here, at the foot of the Mountain that had haunted him for years and years, with a dragon sleeping some scant few miles away from them, on this barren rocky ground and with Bilbo's gentle breath brushing the skin at the base of his throat with a ghostly promise of love and comfort if they only managed to survive the next few days.


	19. Balin

Balin saw him smoking his pipe facing away from the camp and watching the break of dawn, the sky in the southeast seeming to be split from the broken line of the horizon by a thin scarlet tear. For some reason, Thorin's lonesome figure stark against the backdrop of the brightening firmament which looked, of all things, bloodied, gave the old Dwarf an unpleasant premonition. He tried to smother it in the bud, scolding himself for such nonsense – of course, the moods had undergone a change now when they were so close to their goal, everyone feeling more sombre and reserved. After all, there was a dragon they were about to deal with, but that was hardly a cause to start to see bad omens all over the place – they had known the danger when they had set off on this Quest. If all went well, Smaug would remain undisturbed, and Bilbo would be back safe and sound with the Company, with or without the Arkenstone.

If it didn't, though… apart from the concerns he had about waking the dragon, dealing with him in case he did, retrieving the Arkenstone or not retrieving it, and the fate of Bilbo, Balin found himself worried about their King as well, or rather what would happen to their King in case Bilbo came to harm in that accursed beast's lair.

Now, almost half a year after the beginning of their journey east, it seemed nigh on improbable that he used to try to inadvertently protect Bilbo from Thorin. Balin had felt warmth to the Halfling right from the start, liking his practical ways and sound judgement and good manners – well, mostly, except the time when his larder was being pillaged and his plumbing destroyed, but that would have riled anyone up – but, like all of them, with the exception of the wizard, perhaps, who must have known more about Bilbo than the Hobbit had known about himself, he had also seen him as a gentle little fellow, awfully unprepared for the big, wild and more often than not cruel world outside his little Hobbit-hole in the Shire. He had personally had doubts as to the usefulness of Bilbo on their quest, but since he also held Gandalf in high regard, he had had to concede that there really might be something about the Halfling which didn't meet the eye immediately.

What had met the eye, though, was the sadness in Bilbo's large eyes, his obvious homesickness and his sensitivity, which wasn't a bad thing per se, of course, but not when it came to having to face Thorin in one of his moods. Much as he loved and respected the Dwarf, he also couldn't deny that Thorin could be harsh at times, didn't really care for politeness, was sometimes painfully straightforward and could outscowl Gandalf himself when he had a mind to. Besides, he had taken Bilbo sceptically from the first moment he had lain his eyes on their burglar-to-be, never really trying to hide that he wouldn't mind if Bilbo just gave up on their Quest and went back to the comforts of his Hobbit home without as much as a good-bye.

So Balin had felt it was his duty to be around the new member of their Company, cheer him up, engage him in a conversation, try to take his mind off his homesickness and protect him from their leader's harsh words and angry scowls the best he could. What he had found in return for his kindness was that Bilbo was a smart little fellow, way more cunning and shrewd than most members of their Company, that he had a rather engaging manner of telling stories, a sunny smile and a kind heart, which Thorin would have been able to see if he had only deigned to try to look past his long Durin nose.

So much more amusing was it now that the very person he had always tried to protect Bilbo from had turned out to be the one most interested in their little Hobbit's well-being. Over the past half a year, Balin had watched the ice around Thorin's heart that had been there ever since the demise of Erebor long, long ago, melt away. It had done so slowly, layer by layer, eventually leaving his heart exposed and unprotected and so very warm, and what he could see now as he looked at Thorin smoking his pipe alone as his eyes watched the eastern sky grow lighter was a different kind of Dwarf, one who was more similar to what the young prince of Erebor had been like before his home had been devastated by that fiery hazard from the north, a Dwarf who was softer, gentler and kinder than the Thorin Oakenshield that had left the Shire half a year ago.

Thorin hadn't slept well, he knew, otherwise he would still be by Bilbo's side, but Balin was nonetheless glad he had managed to steal a few hours of rest in the arms of someone he had come to care for so much. It might have been tinged with bitterness but it was better than having none of that only to realise later when nothing could be changed that such moments should have been cherished and treasured more. He, after all, knew it like no one else.

"You deserve all the happiness you can get, laddie," Balin said softly as he joined Thorin with his own pipe in hand.

Thorin gave him a glance, and, momentarily, the old Dwarf was surprised by how young he suddenly looked. There was no youth in the hard lines of Thorin's face, or the set jaw or the occasional silver strand in his raven-black hair, but his eyes were shining with what Balin hadn't seen in them for more than a hundred years, the light of the springtime of life itself. The brief smile which was directed Balin's way looked oddly gentle and confused and somehow vulnerable, one which again reminded him of that young prince Thorin had been once, the young lad who had adored his little sister and laughed merrily with his brother as they raced through the tunnels of Erebor, long before Dís had become an iron-hand ruler in Ered Luin half-consumed by grief for her late husband, and before the radiant and cheeky grin of Frerin had been extinguished forever in Azanulbizar.

"Never thought it would happen to me, let alone here and now…" Thorin finally sighed, returning his eyes to the crimson line on the horizon. The heaviness in his voice pretty much drowned out the brittle hopefulness in his eyes.

"Such things are never expected, and they are precious precisely because of it," Balin gave him a return little smile although Thorin wasn't even looking at him anymore.

Balin was glad for it because his smile was wistful and bitter, brought onto his old lined face by the memories of his own One, the love of his life he had lost to the loathsome creature that was residing in their Mountain even now. Nothing was left of her, not a single memory but the marriage beads Balin never wore anymore but instead kept safe in a locket around his neck. They had never had children, arrogantly believing then that they had been too young for that and that all the time in the world belonged to them. Mahal knew, Balin would go to slaughter the beast with his own hands if it could only return his wife to the world of the living. Unfortunately, it didn't work quite like that and sometimes the ones who were granted life by luck or valour were the ones who had to spend it as the living dead instead. He dearly hoped Thorin wouldn't have to experience such heartbreak, gods knew, he had had his fair share of it and more.

"How am I supposed to let him into that Mountain all on his own?" Thorin asked softly, as if having read Balin's thoughts, and rubbed the spot between his brows with his fingers as if a headache was lodging there.

"It's Bilbo's choice to make, and no one is going to force him down those tunnels, you know that."

"No one, aye, except we already have," Thorin said, the lines on his face deepening and that brittle light in his eyes fading away completely. " _I_ have."

Balin said nothing to that because he knew Thorin was right. He knew Bilbo would risk his life for the Quest which really had nothing to do with him, the most foolish and reckless venture he had ever taken part in and one gentle fellows like him should never find themselves on, yet he also knew that this was precisely what had made all of them, even the most distrustful and suspicious ones, warm up to the Hobbit. Because the brave ones weren't those who felt no fear; aye, they did feel it alright, but the ones who went on in spite of it. Over the course of their adventure, Bilbo had proven to them enough times that he was one of the bravest in their Company, brave enough to match Thorin Oakenshield himself in his selfless courage, so perhaps it was no coincidence that it was the two of them who, by the end of this venture, had ended up finding something which none of them most certainly had been planning on finding at the start of it, had ended up holding on to each other on the eve of the most crucial day of their Quest, holding on to each other like there was no tomorrow, and it was all too probable that there might not be.

"Give him some credit, he's proven many a time that he is not as defenceless as he seems and that he is smart enough to know how to stay alive. Gandalf was right about him when it seemed impossible, so I should never underestimate the wizard's judgement again."

"I wish Gandalf was here now to…" Thorin trailed off, taking his eyes off the horizon and fixing them on the ground in front of him. "To protect him if everything goes pear-shaped, to take him away from here quickly, as far from here as possible. He doesn't deserve to die in a fight which isn't even his to take part in."

"Aye, so do I," Balin sighed, "but Gandalf's not here. We have ourselves to rely on."

For a while, they sat in silence which would be comfortable weren't they on the edge of entering the Mountain with a dragon in it and sending one of their Company off to face him with the chances of his survival being very slim.

"What was it like, Balin? To lose the One you loved?"

The older Dwarf winced at the question internally, not really wishing to disturb the old wounds – being as close to Erebor as they were for the first time in more than a century caused enough heartache as it was to speak of it now to make it even worse. Still, he was here not only as an old warrior to offer his services to his rightful King, but also as a mentor and a friend should Thorin need his advice or support, and Thorin had every right to know the answer to that question, now of all times.

He swallowed before he spoke, his throat constricting traitorously even all these years later. They had never made it out of the Mountain and there had been no chance to look for unlikely survivors later. Those who could have fled had done so, without as much as looking back, and the regret and sorrow and guilt were as fresh and acute as they had ever been.

"It hurts more than the dragonfire could hurt," Balin said softly, eyes fixed on the flaming strip of the sky, so akin in colour to the fire his was speaking of. "As if your whole heart has been wrenched out of your chest and butchered right in front of your very eyes, and then there is no heart left anymore to live your life with. You learn to go on, though, some do better and some worse, life catches up on you and it is a blessing if you have someone else to care about, or someone to take care of you, some work to do and duty to fulfil, like I had – I should consider myself lucky to be where I am – but…" he sighed, not wishing to burden Thorin with what might not happen, but knowing he had the right to know the truth. "You live on without your heart because it was ripped right out of your chest and never put back. It is strange how while you are together, you complete each other like two halves of the whole, but when your love dies, your heart dies with them, entirely, even if you go on living. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, laddie."

He felt Thorin's eyes on himself but the King said nothing for a while, and Balin was glad for it – he wasn't sure he would be able to tolerate pity or sympathy right now.

"I sometimes wish I had never met him at all," Thorin finally murmured. "That I could have allowed him to live his happy life in peace surrounded by his hills and gardens and flowers instead of dragging him into peril."

It made a soft and almost wistful smile tug at the corners of Balin's mouth – mature and experienced as Thorin was, a battle-tempered warrior, ruthless and bitter as the hard life had made most of them, he was still a bit clueless in the matters of love because he had never really loved before.

"You forget it wasn't you who dragged him on, Thorin. He went for you and for all of us, but it was still his decision to make, and it might still prove to be the most crucial one."

"Then I wish that I had kept my heart to myself," the King went on, his fists clenched between his knees. "To understand it this late only to send him off to the dragon, what kind of cruel irony is that?"

"You can't change your heart, though," Balin pointed out, not unkindly. "We never choose who we fall in love with, and I can tell you one thing for sure. No matter how simpler everything might be if love never happened, it is always worth it. Even if death separates you and your One, what time you have managed to steal for yourselves is worth all of it, trust me on this. It changes everything, the way you are and the way you feel and the way you treat others, it leaves its imprint on every single aspect of your life, it hurts sometimes, and I wish dearly there was less of it, but it also resurrects you in a sense. It has changed you, too, Thorin," Balin nodded at him and gave him another soft smile. "You are not the same Dwarf who ventured on this Quest from the Blue Mountains, and it may yet change you and a lot of other things further."

"Let's hope it would be for the best then," Thorin said with a nod, but his voice didn't sound anywhere near hopeful, and Balin's heart went out to him. It didn't seem fair that with as much as Thorin had already lost or sacrificed he should be denied this chance to be happy, but he also knew there was no going back from this place. They could only move on now.

"Never regret that you love or loved someone. It is always worth it, son, whatever end it may lead to."

The smirk that twisted Thorin's lips didn't look a tad convinced, but Balin didn't really expect it to be.

"I'm glad the boys are still in Laketown, both of them, although I hated to deny them the chance to see their homeland," he suddenly said. "I wish Bilbo had stayed there with them, too."

"I don't think there is a power in the world that would have made him stay there, Thorin," Balin shook his head. "His place is here with the Company and with you above all, he knows that, and so should you."


	20. Bombur

Bombur tended to wake up earlier than others as he had breakfast to cook for the whole Company, so this time around he was up before sunrise and before anyone else had cracked an eyelid open, too. It was his duty and he didn't have anything against it, and besides, he would rather get up and cook for everyone than have to force down his throat whatever Bofur or Glóin could concoct; they would have probably poisoned each morsel of food with the sheer aversion they held for cooking, and Bombur had always considered a good meal to be a momentous part of any venture. Bilbo was of the same opinion and was often willing to help, which was rather fortunate for all of them – for one thing, the Hobbit seemed to have plenty of various recipes in that curly head of his, along with the knowledge of numerous herbs and spices which made the dishes very much scrumptious; and for another, he tended to become peculiarly irritated in that Hobbity way of his whenever anyone dared to stick their filthy fingers into the pot before the food was ready. Unsurprisingly, it was Fíli and Kíli who as a rule received a sound telling off from Bilbo, and neither the innocent grin from the former nor the puppy eyes from the latter could appease either the Hobbit or their Uncle, to whom they would implore for being unfairly treated. In fact, Thorin seemed to quite enjoy the performance each time Bilbo gave his nephews an earful.

This particular morning Bombur didn't really need the Hobbit's company, though, for which there were at least two reasons. One was that he found Bilbo sleeping snuggled in Thorin's bear embrace, which was, if anyone asked him, long overdue. They made a pretty little picture, too, the Hobbit nearly engulfed by Thorin's limbs, hair and blankets, and Thorin himself looked like he was trying to hold all of their resident burglar in his arms, his lips pressed to the top of Bilbo's head as if Bilbo was the most priceless bundle of jewels. Besides, though Bombur couldn't be called a light sleeper by any stretch of the imagination, sleep had stubbornly eluded him that night no matter how hard he had tried to close his eyes and pass out. It was his thoughts that had kept him restlessly awake for the most part of it, thoughts of the dragon and of the inevitable approach of Durin's day, which, as a result, had made him an inadvertent witness to everything that was taking place between the King and the burglar no matter how hard the two of them were trying to keep quiet. He could still hear some shuffling coming from the edge of the camp where the two of them slept and catch a soft moan here, a gasp there, as well as muffled growling which surely belonged to Thorin. Bombur hadn't minded any of it, though. Firstly, a life on the road was like that quite often, offering little privacy, and, secondly, it was high time those two finally figured it all out between themselves. It had been just a matter of time, and perhaps this moment here, on the eve of the last day of autumn, was the perfect one to do it. It might prove to be too late if they put it off any longer.

The second reason why Bombur didn't wish to disturb Bilbo was that the Hobbit deserved all the sleep, rest and comfort of loving arms he could get before he had to creep into the dragon's den. None of the Company were feeling particularly delighted about having to let him into the Mountain on his own, having grown fond of Bilbo long ago and thus too averse to the idea of him risking his life. They had discussed what the Hobbit had to do many a time whilst gathered around the campfire, with and without Gandalf, talking about the way the tunnels were organised and which level the treasury was on, making sure Bilbo understood that all that was needed from him was to creep in and assess whatever he found there. The Arkenstone was the goal but it didn't have to be found immediately, all Bilbo had to bring back now was information, and then they could have a council to decide what had to be done next. Bilbo should never be in danger if everything went according to plan, and Thorin had managed to entice a promise from him that he was not going to risk his life unnecessarily.

Bilbo had made it lightly enough, but something about the Hobbit's composure and the expression of his face had told Bombur he was doing so out of mere politeness and the desire to appease everyone. He had risked his life for them all before, not once, and Bombur was apprehensive that the reckless Hobbit could and would do it again, no matter what he had promised them. He only hoped that perhaps now, with Thorin's affection for him so obvious, Bilbo would have something to keep him to his word and make him try not to risk himself in vain. They would grieve if something happened to the Halfling, and as to Thorin… Dwarves didn't take the loss of their One lightly, and Thorin was more intense and passionate than most Dwarves Bombur had encountered in his life; he hoped he would never find out what it could do to the likes of his King.

When the first crack of dawn started to be visible in the east over the broken line of the horizon in the east, the jagged bulk of the mountains standing dark against the brightening sky, Bombur heard quiet shuffling coming from the side of the camp where Thorin and Bilbo were sleeping, and, almost against his will, his eyes were drawn in that direction. He tried not to pry on them, but it was a tricky task to accomplish since it was hard to overlook something when all of them were nestled close to each other in this little clearing between the rocks and brush and that he was right in the middle of it dealing with the fire and breakfast.

As Thorin roused himself from his bedroll, carefully extricating himself from the Hobbit's arms, the little lump under the blankets that Bilbo was shifted restlessly, and Thorin leaned down to him immediately. A quiet whisper reached Bombur's ears, and this was when he fixed his eyes back on the bowl in front of him, relieved he couldn't tell the words which weren't meant for anyone's ears but those of the Halfling. He looked up only when he heard quiet footsteps of heavy boots approaching him. Thorin greeted him hoarsely with a quiet, _'Morning,'_ and gave him a small smile which looked way too wane and brittle for the cook's liking.

By all means, Thorin should be more pleased and eager to be here and move on than all the rest of them combined – the rightful heir of the Throne under the Mountain finally reaching his long-lost kingdom, the old prophesies coming to life before their very eyes. He was closer to it now than he had been for longer than Bombur had been alive, but, among all of them, at this very moment Thorin looked like he couldn't wish to be further away from the Lonely Mountain. It was an unexpected thing to see, to say the least, and quite unsettling, too.

Transformations which had happened to their leader over the last months of the journey were remarkable, in Bombur's humble opinion. Thorin had started it as a weathered warrior who had seen many battles and many deaths, all of them adding to the steely glint in his deep-set blue eyes. The peaceful life hadn't been too kind to most of them, either, to Thorin least of all, perhaps, as it was him on whose shoulders lay the burden of protecting and providing for his people, which had only added more hard and sharp lines to his face and quite a few white strands to the black shock of his hair.

It was nothing new, though, and most of the Company were used to Thorin being precisely like that – most were younger, thus never having a chance to see what kind of Dwarf he had been before Smaug had destroyed all he had, and the rest who had known him in those times must have nearly forgotten if he ever had been much different. Balin as the oldest of them and Dwalin as Thorin's childhood friend perhaps could recall another Thorin, one that was now buried deep under the grief and anger and drive for vengeance. So much starker was the change in him that Bombur had witnessed.

When they had gathered back in the Shire for the first time, Bombur had been able to notice a spark of interest dancing in their leader's eyes as he had observed the Hobbit from beneath his bushy eyebrows, and even though the glare and the scowl had been present and had remained there throughout the entire evening, along with the irritation and displeasure which had followed in the days to come, that spark of interest had persevered. When Thorin had thought no one was looking, he would study their little burglar as if Bilbo was something that he couldn't puzzle out no matter how hard he tried, as if there was something Bilbo had which was utterly beyond Thorin's reach, and that might as well have been the case. Bilbo was as different from their leader as he possibly could, in appearance as well as in character, mild and courteous where Thorin was short-tempered and rough, merry and cheerful where Thorin was bitter and distant, sensitive and kind where Thorin could be relentless and downright brutal. So Thorin would stubbornly stare the Hobbit down and then scowl upon being caught by the members of the Company.

Yet, gradually, the breach between them had shortened, and unexpected smiles, first small and brittle, had started to be teased out of Thorin, which had then, incredibly, transformed into barks of laughter whenever Bilbo was telling them something hilarious or was scolding his nephews, the lines on Thorin's face smoothening whenever his eyes had found the Hobbit and that spark of interested amusement that had initially been there turning day by day into a very warm light illuminating the whole of Thorin's face and making him look improbably younger, as if the burden of responsibility and hardships had been momentarily lifted off his shoulders. He looked almost at peace when he was in Bilbo's company, as if the Hobbit's easy-going, amiable nature rubbed off on him, too, making him grounded and taking the edge of the passions that had ruled Thorin for decades upon decades before that.

It was extremely amusing to watch, as if immersing into a good book, and, surprisingly, it gave them all hope where very little of it had seemed to dwell initially. Bombur would never have called Thorin a bad leader, far from it, but life had turned his passionate nature into one which was dangerously tempestuous, even violent at times. Bilbo's presence seemed to settle him somewhat, nurturing Thorin's natural strength of character instead and turning it from destructive into empowering. It was good to see, and it was also good to know Bilbo had the fiercest protector he could possibly wish for on this Quest while Thorin himself had the Hobbit's voice of reason to placate him, a nice addition to that of Balin, even more valuable given the absence of the wizard.

The smile that appeared on Thorin's face now as he walked past Bombur and towards the rocky outcrop a little way away, where Balin had spent his part of the night watch, looked like nothing he had had a chance to witness so far on their leader's face. It was a worried, almost anxious kind of it full of silent dismay, and on the spur of the moment, Bombur reached out to give Thorin's forearm a firm squeeze, trying to transmit the thought that everything would surely turn out alright, it had to. Thorin halted beside him for a brief moment, nodding his acknowledgement with a sigh which sounded unsettlingly heavy and thus gave Bombur a nasty kind of a premonition he could surely do without.

"Don't wake him up just yet," Thorin said at last, softly, and having received a nod from Bombur, headed for the edge of the cliff to join Balin.

It had taken a while before Bilbo woke up, the comfort of the quilts and Thorin's coat, not the billowing fur one but a much less grandiose version from Laketown, combined with their nocturnal activities apparently providing for a good night's rest. The others had done their best not to disturb his sleep, doing all the packing and talking a little way away from where the Hobbit was resting. As Bilbo sat up, blinking at the rising sun a little owlishly and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, unsuccessfully trying to suppress a yawn, Bombur placed a bowl with steaming broth right under his nose. He was unable to hold back a chuckle as Bilbo sniffed at it with his eyes still half-closed and then broke into a smile.

"Thank you," he said as he accepted the bowl and then squinted up at Bombur, his drowsy expression compromised by growing suspicion. "Have I overslept everything?"

"Nah, all is fine. The others just didn't want to disturb you," Bombur said, resuming his place by the fire and going back to cleaning the pot from the remains of the breakfast.

Bilbo nodded, huddling into Thorin's coat and warming his hands on the bowl, looking, of all things, a bit self-conscious as his eyes darted around from time to time as if he were trying to catch a glimpse of the others. Bombur was pretty certain that he was most interested in only one person at the moment, which was perhaps to be expected after spending the night with him and not finding him beside himself come morning.

"Where's everyone?" Bilbo finally asked, frowning.

"Gone to haul the packs and provision up the path to the hidden door a while ago. I'm here to keep an eye on the camp and make sure you have your breakfast."

"What?!" Bilbo exclaimed, sounding utterly indignant. He also nearly spilt his broth, which could signify the extent of his agitation. "Why didn't you wake me? I am supposed to be there and--"

"You're supposed to go with me, Master Baggins." Thorin's voice interrupted Bilbo mid-sentence as the Dwarf himself stepped into the clearing from behind Bombur's back. "We'll set off once you're done with the breakfast."

Bombur didn't have to look up to see the smile on their leader's face as the gentleness in his voice served as good an indication as any. Instead, he watched Bilbo's eyes change from confusion and indignation to reluctant relief as they settled upon Thorin. Then there was a brief glimpse of suspicion again.

"Thorin, we did talk about it, there is no _we_ , I'm going down there _alone_. Why didn't you wake me up when the others went?"

"I'm not yet ancient enough to start forgetting things, Master Baggins, even if you might consider one hundred and ninety-five a bit decrepit," Thorin replied, sounding utterly serious, but Bombur realised, not without a great deal of amazement, that he was actually trying to joke.

_Thorin. Was trying. To joke._ Judging by Bilbo's face, the Hobbit was just as taken aback, the expressions on his face changing from puzzlement to suspicion to surprise, and then he gave Thorin a faint smile and a raised eyebrow. It made Bombur really wished he was looking elsewhere because that glance was intended solely for Thorin and no one else, a lover's glance if Bombur had ever seen one, a glance which spoke volumes of things only the two of them knew about.

" _Decrepit_?" Bilbo echoed at last, this time with a soft huff of laughter.

"You've got a long day ahead of you, though, it was only reasonable to let you get as much rest as possible. The Arkenstone is your job, hauling bags and packs to the door is not. Now," Thorin smiled as he finally came up to Bilbo and placed a casual kiss on the top of the Hobbit's dishevelled head as a greeting, making the latter give a small start and clutch at his bowl of broth so hard his knuckles grew white. "Eat your breakfast in peace. We'll catch up with the others once you're done."

Bilbo shot Bombur a glance, both a little flustered and a little apologetic, but he relaxed noticeably when the cook gave him a wink and muffled a good-natured chuckle in his beard. After all, he should know that whatever affair he and Thorin had going hadn't been a secret for the rest of the Company for quite some time, there really was no point in getting all abashed now when even Thorin himself didn't find it necessary to hide it any longer.

"Do you need your coat back?" Bilbo asked Thorin, who had settled himself closer to the still smouldering fire.

"No, snuggle up while you're eating, I'm fine as it is. It's growing warmer so it should be bearable for you soon."

After a while, when Bilbo was done with his breakfast, they walked off together, the Hobbit a little way at the front, with Thorin's hand resting on his shoulder.

Watching the two of them, Thorin with his oddly vulnerable smile which made the corners of his eyes crinkle warmly and his protective hand hovering over Bilbo, and the Hobbit looking back at him with trust and tenderness, gave the cook a lease of new hope. It had to be alright in the end, luck couldn't turn her back on them now of all times, could it?


	21. Bilbo

Over the past half a year on the road with thirteen Dwarves and a wizard whose age no one really knew, so much had been told about Erebor, the wealthiest and most magnificent kingdom of Dwarves in Middle-Earth, with its treasures and its intricate carvings and delicate mosaics and vibrant stained-glass windows and gleaming polished stone reflecting the fires of torches on the walls, the safe and formidable fortress, the home his companions had sought for so long. Yet this was not quite what Bilbo had found here, the enticing picture drawn by the Dwarves a stark contrast to what really was. There were indeed treasures beyond measure, riches untold, the amount of them defying common sense and imagination, all dumped in a gleaming, glittering heap in the treasury where Smaug had dwelled for years upon years, but the stink of the dragon still lingered over the gold and the precious gems and jewels, as it did all over the whole Mountain, in fact. The Erebor Bilbo had come to find was a dark, sinister and lonely place, the sophisticated patterns carven on the soaring walls and arches of the halls and tunnels destroyed or crumbling, the mosaics either not visible in the darkness or smashed to pieces, the glass of the colourful windows shattered to shards and the few torches they had managed to light doing a poor job at dispelling the impenetrable darkness all around. It crept on you, Bilbo found, and he truly couldn't say whether it was any better than the disconcerting darkness of Mirkwood no matter what Thorin had told him about it.

It could be restored to its former glory and splendour, of course, he had no reason whatsoever to doubt the skill and zeal of Dwarves. That was, if they had a proper King to reign and oversee the daunting process of rebuilding and restoration. As it was, though, the legitimate King under the Mountain who had reclaimed his kingdom from the talons of the fire-breathing beast – technically at least, because it really was someone from Laketown who must have slain the dragon – that very crownless King who had sought for so long to return the rightful home to his people, didn't seem to be particularly interested in rebuilding anything at all anymore.

The trouble wasn't Erebor itself, Bilbo reckoned as he padded lightly through the dark tunnels, his hand trailing along the wall to prevent himself from tripping over any rubble that the floor was strewn with. Erebor was just a deserted kingdom, after all, like a house abandoned by its inhabitants which could always be brought to a mint condition if there was a proper practical owner to be found who was willing to make an effort, so, surely, Erebor could be put in order and shine again, like a jewel he had been told it was.

By gods, they should be celebrating the return of the rightful King to his rightful kingdom now, feasts – even if small ones for the lack of much provision – thrown, ale drunk, people of Laketown celebrating it with them for it meant that they, too, could rebuild and return to their homes of old, to Dale and Esgaroth. Thorin should be sending word to his people in Ered Luin and the Iron Hills, welcoming them back to their olden kingdom. Thorin should be proud and smiling and contented. Bilbo might not have considered him to be the cheerful sort at the beginning of their acquaintance with each other, quite the opposite, but he had been proven wrong along the way. He knew Thorin could smile, and albeit rare, those smiles could be merry and radiant, charming even when he had a mind to make them so. He knew Thorin could laugh and celebrate and play his harp and sing. He knew that beneath the dour, ornery warrior with his frequent scowls and frowns and grimaces, there was a heart which still remembered how to be kind and gentle, caring and protective. The Thorin he knew should by all means be a happy Dwarf right now, a buoyant and ambitious King encouraged and motivated by the success of their Quest.

And yet Thorin was anything but happy. Yes, he kept wading through his mountains of treasure with a smile on his face and a glint in his eyes, but the smile looked almost feral and the glint seemed feverish. It made him frightening to watch from aside and even more so to be on the receiving end of such smiles and looks, and oh, Bilbo knew that like no one else, being there way too often for his liking these days. Thorin treated the rest of his Company with disconcerting suspicion now, scowling and glaring at them as if they were not his friends and kin and most loyal of Dwarves who had been and still were willing to give their lives for him, but when it came to Bilbo, for some strange reason, Thorin's moods kept alternating with irregular frequency. Sometimes he was scowled at along with the rest, being grabbed and dragged aside, interrogated as to his doings here in the Mountain and then ordered to join the others in searching that damned stone, and there was none of the gentleness that had once been in his touch and his voice left in him anymore. At other times, which were growing rarer by the day, it seemed, there suddenly was a smile on Thorin's face, lighting up his eyes and reminding Bilbo of the Dwarf he had fallen in love with and made love to. Those days seemed so irrevocably gone now as if it had never happened in the first place, the touches and the kisses and the tender words and the muffled promises. The worst, however, was seeing that brief smile and the fleeting warmth in Thorin's eyes fade in the matter of a couple of heartbeats, being substituted by a cold, steely glare as if he barely knew who Bilbo was at all. In the worst case, he would be scoffed or growled at, which hurt and scared Bilbo; on better days, he would be dragged around and made to follow Thorin everywhere he went as if he was his pet as the delirious King showed him his ruined kingdom, Thorin's hand squeezing on his shoulder or wrist in a vice grip, making Bilbo bite his lip to prevent a cry. He truly couldn't say which version of the Dwarf was more frightening, the obsessively suspicious or the obsessively enthusiastic one.

Bilbo hadn't really believed the story he had overheard back in Rivendell, the one about madness which might or might not run in the line of Durin. Or rather, he had believed it – he had had no reason to doubt what Lord Elrond said, but he had somehow – naively – refused to believe that Thorin could be affected by it. He hadn't known him well enough by then, but even as far as a few weeks into their journey, Thorin hadn't seemed like one who could be afflicted by insanity, his mind sharp and quick, his decisions reasonable – well, most of the time, at any rate, when they didn't strictly concern Elves – and his character strong and steady. There was the matter of his short temper, passionate nature, stubbornness and pride, but that was hardly a prerequisite for madness – from what he understood, most Dwarves were more or less like that, and none of them seemed particularly insane.

But here it was all the same, with Thorin changed the moment he had stepped through the hidden door into this cursed Mountain of his. Bilbo hadn't noticed it then – perhaps hadn't _wanted_ to notice it, the cold impassive light in his eyes as he had sent Bilbo off into the dark spiderweb of tunnels, the light which was so different from what he had seen in those same eyes earlier that morning, the warmth and affection he had lost his silly heart to somewhere along the way all but extinguished. There had been anything but those when, after who knew how many hours of Bilbo's wandering through the treasury, Thorin had all but caught him at the secret entrance as Bilbo was trying to flee from Smaug. The eyes that were looking back at him from the familiar face he had come to love had been those of a stranger, a detached, alien look in them as Thorin had blocked his way with his sword. Bilbo still wondered what would have happened had Smaug not chosen to make an appearance at that very moment. Would Thorin have shoved him back into the troves of gold by force and stood vigil there at the mouth of the only tunnel leading out until Bilbo finally managed to bring him the Arkenstone? Would he have used that sword of his had Bilbo refused to obey?

No, the Mountain had nothing to do with how bleak everything seemed, but Thorin did, and Bilbo wasn't the only one to see it for what it was and feel miserable and despondent because of that. He snapped at everyone these days, forgetting to eat and sleep, growing more haggard and irritable, and didn't wish for anyone's company but that of the gold which finally belonged to him. Bilbo knew the others were hurt by Thorin's changed attitude and his condition, Dwalin as his closest and oldest friend whom he now shunned, Balin who had known him since he was but a child, Fíli and Kíli, who had miraculously managed to escape from the ravaged Laketown and yet whose presence suddenly failed to kindle that warm light in Thorin's eyes as if he had forgotten who they were. Bilbo could see the pain in the deepening lines on their faces and worry and sadness in their eyes, and it made him wonder whether Thorin's rapid deterioration caused them more pain than it did him. They had been with him and known him for longer than Bilbo had lived, had had a chance to see and learn many sides of his personality, the good and the bad, and somehow Bilbo found himself feeling almost envious of them all. At the very least, they had had a chance to spend their lives with Thorin, so much more time than he had ever been allowed to.

And still, rightfully or not, his own heart was breaking, too, into so many pieces. He hadn't even known before that a broken heart could hurt this much, or perhaps it was that rebreaking what had barely had a chance to heal was simply more torturous. He scolded himself for being a naïve fool, for allowing himself to fall in love with Thorin in the first place – and this was what he had really done, _allowed_ this to happen, knowing now and knowing back then that he could have and probably should have put a stop to that before it was too late. After all, they really were awfully different, everything about them, from their races to their appearances to their personalities and their status. It had been a beautiful dream while it lasted, but life rarely granted a story-book happy ending to those involved. He also knew, though, that it was his Baggins blood speaking in him, reasonable and pragmatic. The Took side of his personality, more romantic and adventurous and sentimental, refused to believe that what he and Thorin had shared had been nothing but a figment of his imagination in combination with the Dwarf's fleeting interest in him. Gandalf had been the one who had dragged him on this journey, aye, but Thorin had become the reason he was all of a sudden feeling more alive than he had in the past couple of decades. It couldn't have been in vain, neither his feelings nor the Quest itself, there had to be some way out of it, some solution, some remedy which would make Thorin see reason. He might not truly love Bilbo, but it didn't change the fact that Bilbo loved him, and there was no going back from that. He was willing to do anything he could to help the situation. He only needed to get his wits together and think, long and hard.

The problem was, though, that no matter how long and hard he thought, the disconcerting feeling of being just a small and helpless creature carried onwards to whatever fate by powers that were bigger than he could ever begin to comprehend persisted, the feeling of being a dust mote caught in the wind, and Bilbo hated it. He might be just a small fellow in this large world, but he couldn't stand being helpless—

"Why are you sneaking here in the shadows?"

The less than friendly voice with a low growl in it nearly made him jump, his heart rising to his throat to stutter there with surprise and, what was worse, fear. Bilbo nearly tripped over some debris on the floor as he whirled around to see Thorin standing a couple of feet away from him with a torch in hand, his face darker than a thundercloud, suspicion written all over it so blatantly it made Bilbo flinch despite himself. Loath as he was to admit it, being here face-to-face with Thorin, alone in these dark tunnels, felt like a trap of sorts, and there was a brief fraction of a second when Bilbo reflected on just how despondently everything had changed.

"Thorin, has anyone ever told you it isn't a good idea to creep up on people in the darkness? You nearly gave me a heart attack."

He did his best to sound as nonchalant as possible, but his voice betrayed him by quivering a little at the very end. He dearly hoped Thorin would attribute it to his being startled rather than profoundly afraid of him.

"As a King I have the right to know what people are doing in my Mountain," Thorin didn't quite bark but that was a close call and Bilbo shuddered again, pressing his back to the wall behind him. Thorin's voice had also acquired a new quality, becoming hoarse and somehow breathy, as if he was constantly short of air. "Especially those who seem to watch over me as if I was some thief in my own home."

"What are you talking about? Nobody watches over you," Bilbo said softly, wishing desperately to step closer to him, to take his face into his hands, soothe that feverish glint in his eyes and cool his flushed cheeks. It might be a trick of the unsteady orange glow of the torch, of course, but Bilbo was all too aware that the torch had absolutely nothing to do with his condition. Thorin _was_ sick.

"Aren't they? I see how they look at me, spying and speculating, waiting for me to turn my back on them. And _you_!"

Bilbo did his best not to jump at the sudden jab at him, his fingers skimming over the rough wall behind him helplessly.

"Me?"

"You've been avoiding me altogether. What are you doing here in these tunnels?"

"Walking, Thorin, just walking," Bilbo swallowed. "I was left pretty much all by myself, what else am I supposed to be doing?"

"Searching for the Arkenstone. That was in your job description written in the contract you signed, Master Burglar," Thorin snapped, making Bilbo flinch. Whatever happened to ' _Bilbo'_ recently, he wondered with bitterness and a growing sense of dismay.

"I will if you want me to," he said softly, not wishing to provoke Thorin's notorious temper.

He wasn't concerned about himself, not yet anyway – he didn't really believe Thorin would do him harm; after all, he was still one of the members of his Company, he couldn't descend into complete madness so fast as not to remember that he was his friend and companion, had been anyway, not a week ago. That said, getting Thorin into a fit wouldn't do anyone any good, least of all Thorin himself.

For a few long moments, the Dwarf only stared back at him, squinting a little as his gaze took Bilbo in from the top of his head to his toes and then back again. Then he took a step closer, the very air about him feeling menacing enough to make the Hobbit cringe.

"What else would you do if I wanted you to, huh?" he asked, taking Bilbo aback with the quiet intensity in his voice, a kind of dark speculation which did frighten him more than Thorin's unexpected appearance here.

Instinctively, Bilbo tried to take a step back, but his shoulder blades only pressed further into the rough surface of the wall behind him.

"Thorin?" he croaked, his own voice suddenly not only not sounding nonchalant, but downright panicky instead.

And he was on the verge of panic, all of a sudden, because there was a dark sort of amusement in the King's face as he took in Bilbo's expression, and the fact that he was all but trapped between the Dwarf and the wall behind him didn't make his fear abate. All at once, Bilbo was all too aware of the difference in their build, of how much larger and stronger Thorin looked and, in fact, was, and of how unnaturally brightly his eyes were glimmering, reflecting the fire of the torch. There were dark shadows lurking in his eyes, things which used to seem appealing and exciting before but had somehow turned into a tainted version of themselves, desire and longing still there but they were dismal and menacing instead.

Thorin stopped only when he was all but flush against Bilbo, his free hand coming up to wrap around his throat, without any pressure yet but still intimidatingly there. It wouldn't even require Thorin much effort to just squeeze his fingers around Bilbo's neck and throttle him with one bare hand, the Hobbit realised with a jolt of panic. Never had he imagined that panic would one day be something evoked in him by Thorin of all people, Thorin who had always seemed honourable to a fault, brave and protective and--

"Thorin?" he whispered, now positively paralysed with fear. He wasn't sure he would be able to as much as lift his hand let alone fight back or run.

"I wouldn't even need to ask for your consent if I wished to take you," Thorin muttered, his bright eyes fixed on Bilbo's lips. "Just like all that treasure which is mine to take."

Not without difficulty, Bilbo tried to swallow his horror, speechless for once in a lifetime. Thorin was right – he wouldn't manage to defend himself if the Dwarf had it in mind to manhandle him into submission and take him in whatever way he pleased right here, and no one would even hear him scream. He was scared for his life now, yes, but even more so shocked into stupor by Thorin's words and actions, heartache as well as fear gripping him more tightly than Thorin's hand on his throat. If he had ever entertained a thought of Thorin taking him – and, oh, he had, more than once – it hadn't been quite like this in his imagination. If Thorin was going to go on with this, Bilbo knew very well that he was done for one way or another, either from physical damage or because Thorin would surely find the damn stone in the pocket of his vest sooner rather than later, and that would definitely be the end of him.

"You're afraid of me," Thorin suddenly spat out as if it was something abominable to be feeling in his presence, his eyes finally locking with Bilbo's, a strange mixture of pain, dismay, desire and madness in them so acute it was terrible to behold, and even more terrible to be the subject of it.

"I'm terrified," Bilbo breathed out, not deeming it necessary to conceal the truth anymore. He was terrified; pretending to be brave wasn't going to save him, not this time around it seemed.

Once the words were out of his mouth, though, Thorin suddenly recoiled as if he had been slapped. There was a bit more awareness in his eyes now, more confusion and yet more pain, and it left Bilbo torn between the desire to run like all the darkest demons of Middle-Earth were on his heels and the wish to step back to Thorin and take him into his arms and do something – _anything_ – to make that pain and confusion go away. He did neither, however, too stunned and scared to move, barely daring to breathe lest he provoke him further.

"Go away," Thorin muttered, his voice pathetically broken, as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Thorin…"

"Leave!" Thorin roared, making Bilbo shrink away as the echo reverberated through the tunnel, amplifying the dismay and insanity of Thorin's voice.

And Bilbo did, first inching away against the wall, both willing and reluctant to do as he had been ordered. He had no other choice but to go, though, before another fit of madness seized Thorin and made him do something utterly awful.

Once he was around a bend of the tunnel, Bilbo was suddenly grabbed by another set of hands, and this time he would have shrieked, too wound-up and frightened by his encounter with Thorin, if it hadn’t been for a hand pressed gently but firmly against his mouth. The outline of the familiar star-shaped hairdo and the intricate braids made him heave a sigh of relief instead, which was more akin to a wet gulp than a sigh, though.

"Shhh," Nori hissed at him, quietly. "Run, as fast as you can."

"What are you doing here?" Bilbo gasped, stupefied.

"Keeping an eye on you and on him, making sure he doesn't do something he would regret for the rest of his life." When Bilbo opened his mouth again, Nori shook his head. "You shouldn't be alone with him, Bilbo, not anymore. He's not himself. Go now, fast, make sure you stay by someone's side at all times."

"And you--"

"I'll be fine," Nori gave him a sly smile. It was utterly devoid of any sort of good humour, but it still managed to reassure Bilbo a little. And then he did run, still scared but now the fear was almost completely eclipsed by the ache in his heart, deep and gnawing and growing larger still.


	22. Fíli

His younger brother was sitting on the topmost layer of stones which now barred the dilapidated entrance to the Mountain and served as a battlement as well, one of Kíli's knees pulled to his chest and eyes fixed on the starlit sky above him. He seemed transfixed and forlorn, a condition almost as alien to Kíli as rain to the desert, and Fíli's heart went out to his little brother. As a sibling, he was able to perceive Kíli's emotions easily enough, and somehow, he found himself being controversially sorry and envious at the same time. Sorry, because he genuinely sympathised with him and the unexpected love affair he had got himself into. Envious, because he was more than certain that his baby brother had found his One and, albeit being a few years older, Fíli had yet to fall in love with someone and he was curious what the fuss was all about.

"What's wrong with him?" Bilbo asked as the two of them observed Kíli from the ground level, both preferring to stay unnoticed so as not to pry on him. "He's not been quite himself since you returned from Laketown, although he seems to be perfectly healed."

Fíli sighed, momentarily wondering if it was wise to share the secret with Bilbo, and then mentally reprimanded himself for doubting the Hobbit – he had proven himself a good friend and a reliable companion over the past half a year they had spent on the road, so Bilbo could be trusted to know. Anyway, Fíli believed no harm could come from that, certainly much less harm than if Thorin had somehow got the wind of it.

"He's smitten with the Elf," he sighed and shrugged helplessly.

"The _Elf_?" Bilbo actually turned to face him, looking and sounding understandably taken aback. " _The_ Elf? Which Elf?"

"The captain of King Thranduil's guard, Tauriel," Fíli explained, the mere notion sounding utterly nonsensical. "The red-haired Elf maiden he tried to chat up while we were imprisoned in the Woodland Realm and the one who saved his life back in Laketown. No idea how in the world and by which lucky quirk of fate she ended up there, but it is thanks to her that Kíli is alive. He'd have died there from Morgul poison, writing in pain, away from this Mountain and his Uncle and the rest of you."

"Oh…" the Hobbit said softly, meeting Fíli's eyes. "I didn't know it was that… serious."

"You couldn't have," he squeezed Bilbo's shoulder reassuringly. The Hobbit was truly the last person he could have possibly blame for leaving them behind. "No one really could, what with my brother keeping his mouth sealed on it pretending it was just a scratch, the stubborn wretch."

There was a weird expression on Bilbo's face then, his mouth opening and closing a few times as if he wanted to say something and couldn't really bring himself up to it. Then his eyes shifted up to where Kíli was sitting high on the wall.

"Thorin…" the Hobbit began and then winced, as if merely mentioning the name Fíli's Uncle now pained him. Sadly, he could relate.

"Couldn't have known, either," he finished softly, hoping it was so, but…

"He was… you know, he was glad the two of you had to stay behind, relieved even," Bilbo said quietly and Fíli turned to him, surprised. The Hobbit looked back up at him, holding his gaze openly, and then smiled a little sad smile. "Said that if all of us had to perish here, you might still have a chance to get out of the whole predicament unscathed and return to the Blue Mountains to your mother, just as you promised her."

Unexpectedly, what Bilbo had just told him brought a sliver of warmth back into his heart, albeit even this warmth was tainted with bitter premonition of worse things to come.

"He never wanted us to follow him," Fíli admitted, remembering the fit of temper Thorin had given them back in Ered Luin once he had learnt about their intention to go. "Should have seen his face when Kíli and I were standing in full armour and with our ponies loaded back on the morning of our departure."

Bilbo chuckled and shook his head. "Must have been a sight. But he had the right to, Fíli," he went on, voice growing softer still. "He loves the two of you like his own sons. I'm sure he wouldn't have left Kíli in Laketown had he known… not back then, when he was still…"

Fíli nodded as Bilbo trailed off, desperately wishing the Hobbit was right. They stood in silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts.

"I didn't think you Dwarves found, of all races, Elves anywhere near attractive," Bilbo said at last. "I had the notion that you couldn't quite stand each other, but I might have been mistaken, it seems, if what you tell me is true."

"Generally, yes, but my little brother has always been the oddball in the family. Didn't you see him when we were in Rivendell? He was all but mooning over one of the male musicians until we let him know it wasn't an Elf _maiden_. He has always been like that, truth be told, too romantic and dreamy and emotional. I shouldn't really be surprised it ended up with a bloody _Elf_."

"And what happens if one of your race falls in love with one of theirs?" Bilbo asked curiously.

"Nothing good happens," Fíli sighed. "There are stories of old, rare as they are, and most of them ended up in blood and gore and tragedy, for all I know. If they were commons, then maybe… but he's the second heir to the Throne and she's the Captain of Thranduil's troops, I can't quite see how they could possibly end up together, much though I wish they could because she saved his life and because he loves her."

"He's young," Bilbo said softly, even though sounding a bit uncertain. "Such things happen and pass, even though a heart broken for the first time can bleed for long and take a good while to heal. I'm sure there are plenty of Dwarrowdams who could catch his eye in time."

"How much do you know about Dwarven love affairs, Bilbo?" Fíli asked, surprised and amused because, unexpectedly, it didn't seem like the Hobbit did know enough, while he, of all people, really needed to.

That was, it would be perfectly expected of a Hobbit who had never had any dealings with Dwarves before he had been dragged on Thorin's Quest for Erebor, yet in the situation they were in, his own Uncle seemingly having serious feelings for the said Hobbit, perhaps it was high time Bilbo learnt something about how it all worked, if no one else was smart or kind enough to tell him.

Bilbo, in fact, gave him a perplexed glance, his eyebrows raised in puzzlement. "I have a feeling I'm missing something important? I assumed it works the same way it does with us Hobbits and Men, but I guess I must have been wrong?"

"In this sense, we Dwarves are more like Elves than Men and, apparently, Hobbits."

"You mean you love once and for a lifetime?" Bilbo ventured, frowning.

Fíli let out a sigh. "Yes. When we meet our One, we know it and… and that's pretty much it. If a couple is separated or, worse, if one dies, it is a tragedy."

"Are you sure she is his One?" Bilbo's eyes were fixed on the silhouette of Kíli outlined against the dark blue sky.

"Pretty much. I know my baby brother well enough to be able to see the change in him. He's somehow different now, more mature even, although you might not believe me with all this mooning and wooing he's currently doing. He dreams of her at night, too."

"How do you know _that_?"

"Calls her name, mutters something about her walking in the starlight so far away from him. He is a romantic soul and out of the two of us he is the emotional one. In some way, he's like Uncle."

" _Thorin_?" Bilbo gulped, sounding utterly bewildered. "Do you happen to have another uncle or do you mean the…"

"Yes, the very one," Fíli huffed, amused by Bilbo's surprise.

"I haven't noticed Thorin to be quite… romantic, to be honest."

"The opportunity hasn't presented itself yet for him to demonstrate it, I reckon." He couldn't help a grin at Bilbo's wide-eyed surprise. Close as the Hobbit and his Uncle had become, the circumstances had surely not been favourable enough for Thorin to prove it to Bilbo. "Uncle… he's not romantic in the way Kíli is, but… what I mean is, they're both awfully passionate, ruled by their fiery nature. Thorin's older, so there is sense in him. You know, he's not really that severe brooding King he appears to be most of the time. He loves the family deeply, me and Kíli, our mother… He is, in fact, awfully soft at heart with those he holds dear, and trust me we've had enough time to find that out. It's just that he has learnt to control his passions pretty well – some of them, anyway – and I believe so will my brother, in his own time. But something also tells me that before he does, he is in for a whole lot of trouble and heartache."

"Do you think the Elf feels the same?"

"I watched them, back in Mirkwood and in Laketown, you know? She did save him, after all, and there was something… blast it, I wish I knew what it feels like to have a One to be able to judge and know if what they feel is love. Have you ever loved, Bilbo?"

Bilbo opened his mouth to reply and then suddenly closed it as if he had changed his mind or reconsidered his answer entirely. Only belatedly, Fíli realised it might not have been the politest of questions to ask.

"Yes," the Hobbit said after a certain hesitation, ever so softly. "I'm afraid I have."

Bilbo's voice sounded grave, making Fíli wonder if he was so upset because of the love he had once had and lost or if he might be referring to no one other than Thorin himself. In the latter case, Bilbo perhaps had every reason to be grave – his Uncle's condition didn't seem to be very promising.

"Bilbo?" Fíli called, and the Hobbit gave a light start as if he was dragged right out of his thoughts and back to the present moment.

"Yes, Fíli?"

"May I ask you to speak to my brother? I would do it myself but I'm afraid I'm the wrong person in this particular matter. I wish Uncle could, but…" he left the implication hang heavily in the cold night air between the two of them, the unsaid words hurting his very soul, but they hurt Bilbo, too, judging by the fleeting wince that crossed his face.

"Thorin would perhaps be the least suitable person right now," the Hobbit nodded sadly.

"Besides, we have all come to consider you as someone we could confide in, you are a part of the family now, Bilbo," Fíli went on. "I'm sure Kíli will appreciate your company and your advice."

"I wish I had some advice to give," Bilbo sighed, dropping his eyes to his feet, and then nodded. "But I will try to talk to him if that's what you want me to do."

He gave Fíli a smile and, albeit sad, it still reassured him considerably. Along with Balin, Bilbo had always seemed to him the most reasonable member of their reckless Company. Fíli couldn't help but smile back at the Hobbit and then, acting on the spur of the moment, he enveloped Bilbo into his arms, being cautious not to squeeze the petite Hobbit the way he would a Dwarf.

"Thank you," he whispered, gratefully.

Bilbo seemed tense for a while but then he gradually relaxed, and Fíli felt his arms wrap around his middle in response, hand patting his back ever so lightly. It made his eyes sting traitorously, the Hobbit's somewhat parental manner evoking thoughts of his own family, his mother staying so far away in the Blue Mountains, perhaps thinking them all dead; his Uncle slowly succumbing to dragon sickness and being not much help but more of a danger; his brother suddenly lovelorn and miserable. Amongst this chaos Bilbo somehow seemed the only steady and sensible presence, and Fíli clang to him seeking support and reassurance. It was embarrassing because he was not a young Dwarfling anymore, he was a young prince of Erebor, so he should behave accordingly and not hide behind his elder's and cling to their side like a scared child, but he could help none of it, especially not when Bilbo's hand started rubbing his back in a soothing manner.

"It'll be alright, Fíli," he heard Bilbo murmur into his shoulder. "It's alright. Everyone has a right to need support, even if he is a prince of Erebor. We've got this far, we'll get through this one, too."


	23. Bilbo

As Bilbo ascended slowly and soundlessly towards the highest point of the battlement which the younger brother was perched on, he had no idea whatsoever as to what he could say to him. He had never been quite wise in matters of the heart. Truth be told, he couldn't say with certainty that he had even known what love was before he had met Thorin. There had been a few affairs when he had been but a young and daredevil – according to the Shire standards, that was – Hobbit, and it had been quite a few years since he had last been intimate with anyone, with the exception of that night he and Thorin…

Bilbo pushed the thought away quickly, one too bitter to contemplate at the moment. Back in the Shire, he used to value his freedom and independence too much to get into the complications of a relationship, and the longer he had been living on his own, the less appealing the prospect had grown. Back then, he could have hardly been called any source of wisdom or advice when it came to romance, and now that he had something else to compare those fleeting flings with, Bilbo realised he used to be a rather selfish and indifferent Hobbit, which didn't speak too flatteringly of him at all. He might have broken a couple of hearts belonging to nice and respectable Hobbit lasses, and perhaps a few male ones, too, scarcely even giving it a thought. And then he had gone and fallen in love, for real this time, with, of all people, a fierce and rather short-tempered Dwarf, who was also a King, who was also slowly going insane. It was beyond Bilbo what kind of advice he could possibly give young Kíli, but perhaps a talk with a friend could do something for him. Come to think of it, it could do something for Bilbo's aching heart, too.

The stone felt freezing under his fingers as he noiselessly climbed up to join Kíli, and he wished dearly he had something with him to sit on. The thought gave rise to other recollections, picnics on summer evenings in the Shire when they would spread a blanket on lush grassy lawns and have a good meal around a fire, telling stories of heroes and their adventures to each other or just sharing some news or gossiping about the neighbours. It evoked the memories of a warm house with a fire dancing merrily in the hearth and of the clear, starlit sky above the Shire, looking so friendly and familiar. It was the same sky with the same stars that were shining upon them tonight, but somehow nothing looked safe or friendly on the slope of this cold and bleak Mountain. He had heard stories from the older members of their Company of the warmth and safety of their home, of the merry fires and torches alighting the long spiderweb of corridors, of rivers of gold and silver fountains and of precious flowers blooming in the heart of Erebor, yet all Bilbo had seen here since they had entered it was cold and lonely darkness, oppressive and threatening in its silence, spelling disaster rather than promising riches and happiness. Perhaps every kingdom required a good King to rule it and raise it to its power, but unfortunately, their King was in no right state of mind to turn this place into something anywhere near appealing, let alone safe and strong.

Bilbo suspected he wasn't the only one who felt this way, so perhaps that was why Kíli chose to seclude himself here in this wind-blown place instead of keeping company to his kin.

"Bilbo," the young prince greeted him with a nod and a curious glance his way as Bilbo settled himself beside him and fished out his pipe. "What brings you here at this time of the night?"

"I just came out for a breath of fresh air," he nodded at the young Dwarf with a smile. "The Mountain still stinks too much of the dragon, if you ask me. Hope you don't mind the company for a while?"

Kíli shook his head with a return smile and a quiet, "Nah."

Fíli had been right; his younger brother did indeed look somehow elusively changed. There was paleness and gauntness of his cheeks, which must be the residue of whatever kind of vile poison that had circulated in his bloodstream and nearly killed him, according to their story. But that was not all. All of a sudden, he seemed more grown up and somehow disillusioned in a way that only adults could be. There was not much left of the laughing young prince with naughty sparkles dancing in his dark eyes and charming dimples in his cheeks who used to fool around with his brother and fib stories of orcs and monsters lurking in the mountains with the carefree and fearless attitude characteristic of the young and unscared. Instead, these eyes were now fixed on the star-studded winter sky above them with a wistful expression in them as if he were waiting for the deity of his Elf to descend upon him while she was walking up there in the starlight. Somehow, he would never have believed Dwarves to be like this, sentimental and subdued, but perhaps love worked in a similar way for everyone when it came to haunt one in the darkest hours of the night. He, too, had spent many a night on this Quest foolishly gazing into the dark blue sky and thinking of a certain set of deep blue eyes, after all.

"It is strange to see such a familiar sky so far away from home," Bilbo murmured quietly. "When I was but a tween, I used to drop into grass in the nearby meadow and stare up at it, imagining outlines of dragons and warriors I could detect there."

"I never used to really look at the stars before…" Kíli said softly, sounding a bit uncertain, as if he really wished to talk and yet was still wary.

"Before?" Bilbo prompted.

"Uh-huh," the Dwarf hummed and fell silent for a while before going on. "I couldn't see anything special about it, really. What use was the sky with its fickle stars when Uncle told us so much about gems and precious stones down in this Mountain, which glittered brighter than starlight and which could be touched and turned into something real, something material which could be possessed instead?"

"I'm sorry, but, much as I respect him, your Uncle is a grand old fool in certain matters," Bilbo shook his head and received a huff in response.

"I would have disagreed with you a couple of months ago, preferring stones to stars any day, too."

"But something made you change your mind?" Bilbo asked, irrationally wishing that something could change Kíli's Uncle's mind as well, make him appreciate other things which were more precious than all the gold and gems in this lonely mountain of his.

Kíli remained silent for a long stretch of time but when Bilbo reckoned the young prince wasn't going to share anything with him, he finally spoke.

"I miss her something awful…" he muttered softly. "I never even thought it was possible to miss someone so much; I don't even miss Amad that way even though I love her dearly. I don't even know how that happened, Bilbo, one moment I was myself, and then I didn't seem to belong to me anymore."

"Love is an awfully unpredictable thing, and at most of times a rather inconvenient one, if you ask me," Bilbo sighed. "But it cannot be helped if that's what it is."

"I always wanted to be like my brother, you know? Neither of us can really remember our Adad, so the main male role models in my life have always been him and Thorin. Fíli's always been the reasonable of the two of us, the thinker and the reader, always able to say no to what he coveted as a child when explained that it wasn't the right thing for him. I never did, I used to throw tantrums so loud they gave in to whatever I wanted in most cases. The only thing that could appease me most of the time when I was a Dwarfling was Uncle letting me sit astride his shoulders as he took me for a walk around Ered Luin telling me tales of Erebor. He used to coddle me all the time, too, apparently always knowing that I would never make a proper King so he might as well not bother with being too strict with me."

At this, Bilbo raised his eyebrows in surprise, trying to imagine the Thorin he had come to know and love, the often grim and severe Dwarf, fooling around and spoiling his youngest nephew rotten. That would be a sight, he mused, somehow wistfully wishing he could behold that version of him one day, too.

"Fíli has always been the one Uncle had his hopes high for, and I the one he laughed most of all with. That's why I wanted to be like my brother, to somehow deserve Thorin's trust, to prove to him that I was just as sensible and had the same potential as Fíli, but I guess that's just not in my nature. It's good Fíli's older than me, he'd make a splendid King one day. And I would continue to be led by my silly heart, gaze at the stars, daydream and fall in love with Elf maids."

"You know the funny thing?" Bilbo asked, amused.

"Huh?"

"Your brother told me you were actually very much like your Uncle," he said, smiling a little at Kíli's description of himself and wondering if Thorin could possibly fit it, too. It seemed utterly absurd at first observation, but if he gave it a thought, though…

"Well, we both have dark hair and are of more or less the same height, taller than an average Dwarf," the young prince snorted half-heartedly, obviously not taking what Bilbo had said seriously.

"I truly cannot judge," Bilbo conceded, "since I haven't spent anywhere near long enough with either of you to know you properly, but I do believe your brother has a point there. You both are very passionate, willing to go to great lengths to obtain what you desire. The only difference is that you are very young while Thorin has been through a lot of things to perhaps smash all that romantic side of his passions right out of him, and no one could blame him for it. He kept your people together, made sure they endured and, somehow, against all odds, led you all back home. Some people are born reasonable, like your brother, and some have to learn to be, the hard way more often than not. I think your Uncle falls under the second category, and so might you."

"If you put it that way…" Kíli mused slowly, sounding surprised. "I never really thought about it in this fashion but now that you put it in words, it does sound possible."

"You are still very young, Kíli, and with luck, you'll be spared the hardships your Uncle has had to go through to become who he is now. Try to preserve that romantic nature of yours for as long as possible because being reasonable all the time might not be all that fun."

"You sound as if you speak from experience," Kíli snorted quietly.

"You could say that," Bilbo smiled, shifting his gaze to the gently sloping landscape to the west and the black massive of Mirkwood looming far away in the distance. "I used to be an utterly pragmatic and respectable Hobbit and nothing unexpected ever happened to me before you lot showed up on my doorstep. If I had stayed true to myself and gone on to be reasonable, I'd never have…" Bilbo faltered because there was so much that would never have come to pass, and he suddenly realised the thought evoked a genuine sense of terror in him.

"You'd never have what?" Kíli prompted.

"Got to know all of you, seen so much, lived through so much, felt so much," he replied softly, thinking that his heart wouldn't be breaking now, either, while he witnessed someone he had come to love facing his own demise. "So much about me has changed, which I would never have agreed to change otherwise, but I'm also so much happier for it now. So you see, being just a bit – or a lot – unreasonable from time to time might be worth it."

"Have you ever loved, Bilbo?" Kíli asked after a long while of silence with only the wind howling in the mountain cracks and canyons to fill the night, echoing his brother's question.

"Yes, I have," Bilbo nodded, this time without hesitation.

"Do you think you could risk everything for the one you love?"

Bilbo sighed, knowing where this question was leading to – this was what Fíli had sent him here for, the advice his younger brother needed desperately. Thorin would probably strangle him for telling his nephew what Bilbo was going to tell him, but what Thorin didn't know wouldn't hurt either of them. For now.

"Yes," Bilbo finally said, thinking that this was what he would most probably be forced to do soon enough, risk everything for the one he had fallen in love with. "I would. That's why I'm still here."

His words hung in the air for a while, and he felt Kíli's eyes on himself, studying him too thoroughly for Bilbo's liking, but then again, it wasn't much of a secret anymore for pretty much anyone that their burglar had somehow managed to fall in love with their King, helplessly and stupidly and blindly because no one in their right mind would fall for that catastrophe of a Dwarf, so noble and driven and passionate and fierce and so awfully, unforgivably, handsome. They spent some time not saying anything anymore, Bilbo absorbed in his oppressive thoughts about Thorin and his madness and the damned stone that almost burnt him through his pocket, Kíli once again staring out at the night sky fixedly and apparently thinking about that fiery Elf maid of his.

"You have a plan of sorts?" Bilbo spoke again at last.

Kíli only shook his dishevelled head. "No, not really. I didn't quite know what I wanted, but I think I do now. Once everything here is a bit more settled, I will go and find her. Don't suppose Uncle would approve of it, though."

"No, I guess in the state he's in he wouldn't," Bilbo sighed.

"Thank you, Bilbo," Kíli said after a pause, warming the Hobbit's heart again. Instead of saying anything to it, he reached out and squeezed his hand on the young Dwarf's forearm. "I'm glad you're with us. I think Ma would be reassured if she knew someone like you was watching over me and Fíli."

"I'm hardly watching over you," Bilbo murmured, taken aback by the sentiment but pleasantly so. "In fact, I think you watched over me most of the time instead."

"Uncle would have screwed our heads off if we hadn't been," Kíli suddenly smiled, that familiar grin of his, cheeky and radiant and absolutely contagious. "He might not be himself now, but when he was, he did care, Bilbo. I think he still does, somewhere deep inside of him where he still remembers. And he still trusts you of all of us the most."

Bilbo nodded, not able to even raise his eyes to meet Kíli's and doing the best he could to swallow the painful lump in his throat that threatened to suffocate him. Oh, how he wished the young prince was right, how he wished that Thorin could still recall enough of himself to return to his senses one day, but he somehow had a premonition that things were only going to get worse. There was an armed host of Elves and what was left of the Men of Laketown camping in the ruins of Dale right on their doorstep; Thorin was raging and refusing to listen to the voice of reason, spending most of his time trudging through the piles of his gold when he wasn't preparing for war; Gandalf was nowhere to be seen, as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth; the Elves were relentless, the Men resentful, Thorin was insane; and none of them knew what to do about any of it.

Could he risk everything for the one he loved? You bet Bilbo could. Besides, it wasn't like he had anything left to risk – he had lost pretty much all he had once had; his parents when he had been all too young; his youth, which he had spent grieving for them; his home when he had realised the Shire had been nothing but a cage for him for the past decades, and now… he hadn't lost Thorin yet, perhaps, but once the plan he had started to conceive recently was put to practice, Bilbo was certain he would lose him, too; his respect, his trust and whatever love he might have held for him. Maybe his life, along with it, too, but that was alright. He couldn't quite picture it without Thorin in it anymore – and that was what would surely happen at some point; Thorin was a King, Thorin was mad, Thorin could barely recognise anyone in his blind greed and rage; whatever illusions Bilbo might have entertained before, enchanted by the tenderness of touch and the softness of kisses and those damnable promises, some spoken and some left unsaid, he knew now they could never come to pass.

So, if he had to go out of the picture anyway, he would prefer to do it whilst trying to be helpful at the very least. Thorin and the rest of the Company had no chance in defeating the army of Elves and Men, but he knew they would die trying, the stubborn, infuriating, outrageous bunch of them. Bilbo wasn't going to let them do it, not this time around.


	24. Past the Battle of the Five Armies. Thorin

"Thorin! Steady there, my lad, steady."

For a while, there is only suffocating greyness which seems to be swathing him, wrapping its tendrils around him, blurring his vision and dulling the ache in his heart, almost mercifully so. It would be oh so easy to just give in to it, to be lost in it forever, in this nondescript, colourless fog that has started to envelop him, be trapped there and be kindly allowed to forget; forget himself, his mistakes and everything which they have brought about.

Óin's voice snaps him out of this trans-like state, though, and Thorin is suddenly able to see something else apart from the sickly, asphyxiating grey that encircles him, the healer's beard, his bloodied nose and his worried eyes slowly swimming back into focus instead.

"Are you injured?" There are steady hands gripping him by his shoulders, grounding him where he is and now allowing him to drift off into complete forgetfulness. " _Thorin?!"_

"I'm fine." Thorin blinks and then shakes his head, immediately regretting doing so as it intensifies the vertigo. He closes his eyes and takes a few sharp breaths to clear his vision and make the nausea subside. "I'm fine, Óin. Where're the others?"

"Most are still fighting down below, but the Eagles have come and there's that huge beast, the skin-changer, slaughtering the filth left and right, orcs are scattering and fleeing back to whichever holes they have crawled out of with no Master to guide their attack anymore. I reckon it's safe to say the tide has turned. I'm here to see to you and the boys."

The boys, right. His nephews.

Thorin only nods, knowing he should feel at least some measure of relief from the news. He isn't relieved, though, still shaken by what has just happened here, the memory of Bilbo's shriek dying down abruptly and that of his pale face, eyes staring up into the grey skies, refusing to abate. Dragging in another inhale, he looks around, seeking with his eyes the ones who fought here with him – he has to find them, make himself useful. Everything seems to be quiet, though, so devastatingly, ominously quiet. Then his eyes catch sight of Dwalin limping briskly towards where he and Óin are still standing, and he feels something loosen in his chest just a tiny bit.

The warrior looks quite a bit worse for wear, his face bruised and what remains of his hair grisly with orc blood, but he is on his feet nonetheless, which comes as a relief.

"Where's the Halfling," is the first thing Dwalin asks, making Thorin wince and drop his eyes to the grey ice to stop the damned world from spinning again. " _Thorin_?"

"Gandalf's taken him out of here. I don't know where to…"

"He's alive?" his old friend's scarred and blood-splattered face looks so concerned it would be comical if his concern wasn't all too relevant at the moment.

"He was when Gandalf left with him, but I… I don't know, Dwalin," Thorin says quietly, unable to even voice it out properly, and shakes his head, his gaze drawn to that cursed wall of stone. "He was flung against that rock by Azog…"

Dwalin's eyes grow wider for a moment, filling with fear and understanding Thorin simply cannot bear.

"The wizard brought you back once, he'll make sure--"

"There's no use standing here talking about something I cannot change," Thorin snaps, more desperate than angry. "We need to find the others."

"The boys are alive, both of them, saw them climbing down the stairs with the red-head she-Elf just minutes ago, they'll be here any moment now," Óin puts in, making Thorin let out another small sigh of relief.

They only have time to make it back across the icy pond when they see Fíli and the Elf in question leading Kíli down the stairs, supporting him on both sides, his nephew's face as white as a sheet and distorted by pain.

"Kíli…" Thorin breathes out, dismayed – even though being more dismayed doesn't even seem possible anymore – and sprints to the group as fast as the wound in his foot can allow him, with Dwalin and Óin at his heels.

"Uncle!"

When Fíli calls him, the Elf gives Thorin a glance of her fierce moss-coloured eyes, familiar eyes as he is certain he has seen her before but he cannot quite remember where. It doesn't even matter anymore, though. The eyes assess Thorin briefly and then shift to the healer at his side, recognition and relief in them so strong they are almost palpable.

"Óin!" she mouths, and the said Dwarf is the first to reach the three of them.

"What's got him?" the healer barks as they lower Kíli down onto the steps into a sitting position, the boy's face – too pallid, Thorin thinks, sick and aghast – twisted by a grimace of pain, which sends another jolt of terror through his heart.

He cannot lose them both on the same day, his beloved and the boy who has virtually become his son. He _cannot_. Fate couldn't be this cruel to him, Thorin thinks and then nearly scoffs at his own stupid naivety – this is what fate has ever been, cruel and mocking.

"His shoulder, an orc stabbed him. I need _Athelas_ to stop the poison from spreading, Master Óin, do you have it with you?"

She speaks so fast Thorin can barely understand her, or perhaps it is his mind which is clouded by shock again that simply refuses to do so.

As Óin rummages through his poach frantically, Thorin carefully kneels beside his older nephew. "What happened?"

"Bolg almost got him. That Elf princeling was the one who saved Kíli; shot half a dozen arrows or so at the bastard's arm to upset his aim and make him miss Kíli's heart by a few inches," Fíli recounts quietly. "I think his shoulder's dislocated and there's something torn and broken, but the poison is the worst part. But Tauriel has done it before, Thorin, so there's a chance she saves him this time around, too."

Fíli's eyes shine with anxiety and his voice sounds unusually thin and young, as if he were begging Thorin not to get angry, the way he used to do when he was but a small naughty tyke making mischief along with his brother back in Ered Luin so many years ago. The notion is somehow sobering, suddenly making Thorin realise that this is indeed what it is – Fíli being afraid of Thorin's notorious temper with regard to the whole Elvenkind. Stunned and hurt – because he isn't used to seeing his nephews being afraid of him, though it only demonstrates all too clearly what he has turned into, his own kin not quite trusting him anymore – Thorin shifts his gaze to the Elf in question, her white slender hands already pressing some herbs into the bleeding wound on Kíli's shoulder, making his younger boy yelp in pain. The cry doesn't seem to make her lose her nerve, though even Thorin has to suppress a wince and a shudder.

"Stay with me, Kíli," she orders fiercely, her fingers pale against the blood-stained leather of Kíli's armour. "Stay with me, look at me, just look at me, _meleth nin_."

When he does, his eyes glazed with pain and feverishly bright meeting hers, Thorin sees something in them which he has never noticed there before. The emotion resonates deep within him, however, and thanks to this, he recognises it for what it is. He wouldn't have been able to tell it a few months ago, not before he truly knew Bilbo, but he does know now. There is love in Kíli's gaze, pure and uncurbed, driving his determination to cling to life and consciousness despite the pain he must be in and the poison spreading in his blood.

_Oh, namadul_ , he murmurs under his breath, the mixture of emotions evoked in him as comprehension dawns almost suffocating.

There is surprise – because, by Mahal, Kíli is just so young, almost too young to fall in love – and delight – because one is never too young or too old to love and be loved, and that is a good thing, a great thing – and sorrow – because she is an Elf, and oh, the two of them won't have an easy ride – and old, deep-rooted anger – but, to Thorin's genuine surprise, it is but a remnant of the past, an echo of itself getting less and less distinguishable, mere dust already being scattered by the wind. There is no hatred in him evoked by the sight of the red-haired she-Elf, as if all hatred he had held on to for so long was somehow flushed out of his system along with his madness the moment that heavy golden crown hit the solid golden floor of the Gallery of the Kings. It was Bilbo's voice in the end that made him do it, made him see reason, made him behold himself, what he had become and what he was losing so irrevocably fast, and led him back to light again.

The thought of his brave Hobbit echoes in his chest with a sharp, fierce pain, and Thorin has to purposefully drag himself back to the real world, back to the Ravenhill, back to his nephews.

Once the Elf has Kíli's full attention, she starts to chant something in Elvish, and Thorin notices for the first time that there are bruises on her face, too, a slash on her cheek, a mark staring to bloom on her cheekbone, her lip bleeding, and the longer she speaks in her liquid rippling tongue, the paler she seems to grow. Yet here she is all the same, trying to save his nephew for the second time as it appears, and something in Thorin's hard and bitter heart seems to thaw a little more, only to make him realise that it's not his heart acting all by itself, it is the part of it which was previously thawed into life by Bilbo. He aches to be with his burglar, wherever Gandalf has taken him to, to share in his pain the way this Elf is doing with Kíli's. He wonders if he will ever see Bilbo's eyes, open and looking back at him, or if he will ever be able to hear his voice saying his name again, in that inexplicably tender manner of his.

Bilbo isn't here, though, and the best thing Thorin can do now is what Gandalf told him to – do his best to stay alive and make sure that so will those in his charge.

When the Elf's soft chanting ceases, she accepts a rolled bandage from Óin to dress the wound, her movements fast and deft enough to spare Kíli unnecessary jostling.

"This should be enough to stop the poison from spreading. For now," she says dryly, her tone reminding Thorin of Óin's whenever the healer is doing his job. "The wound has to be washed and the sinews sewn, though, the sooner the better."

"We must get out of here then," Thorin says as he gets back to his feet, intending to support Kíli.

Instead, he ends up catching the Elf because Tauriel reels as soon as she stands up after him, with Thorin barely able to steady her in the last possible moment.

"My lady?" he holds her by her upper arms, surprising himself by very much unexpectedly blurted out civility, just as Kíli lets out a faint but nonetheless anxious, "Tauriel!"

"Stop that jostling, lad," Óin instructs him severely, "Thorin's got her, and we've got you."

"I'm alright, Your Majesty," the Elf assures, but her voice is weak and her hands which she raises, apparently to show Thorin she can stand on her own, tremble too much. "I'm alright. We need to leave this place."

She does accept Thorin's shoulder for support, though, as they make their way down the icy stone steps, Kíli led by Dwalin and Fíli, the two of them barely letting his feet touch the ground. The healer leads the way as they descend to the sound of the still ongoing battle below.

*

It seems hours before Thorin has a chance to see Bilbo, so long it feels like he is nearly driven insane all over again.

There is much to be done – getting away from the Ravenhill through the battlefield to the safety of the Mountain, and that cannot be accomplished in the blink of an eye. The battle is still going, even though it is obvious that the orcs and goblins are fleeing, almost none of them attempting to impose any kind of fight anymore. It still takes their small group a long while, with Kíli barely conscious from pain and blood loss, Tauriel seeming to be on her last legs even though she is still able to swing a blow here and there to behead an orc or a goblin who are mad enough to challenge them, and with Thorin himself limping along seemingly driven by the sheer force of will. They try to help Elves and Dwarves and Men they can help, which is not many, with hundreds around needing to be tended to.

This is by far the bloodiest battle he has been in, the ground dark with the blood spilt, the warm stench of death rising from it, and even Thorin, as seasoned a warrior as he is, still can't help looking around with profound dread. Elves and orcs and Dwarves and Men lay tangled together, ghastly wounds and severed limbs and blood everywhere, black and red both, so much of it. He can only hope that those he holds dear are spared, but that is perhaps too much to ask in a fray like this one. It is already a miracle of sorts his nephews are alive, along with Óin and Dwalin by his side, and the thought keeps bringing Thorin's mind back to Bilbo, the piercing shriek as he ventured on that suicide mission of attacking Azog, the dull thump as his body hit the stone wall and how abruptly his scream died down.

He pushes the thought away as they hurry towards the main gates, telling himself he cannot help Bilbo from here so he might as well do his best to help those he can. So help he does, first seeing his nephews to safety and leaving them in Óin's care, then going back, aiding the wounded, Dwarves and Elves and Men alike, taking them to the Mountain, taking them to Dale, to Thranduil's infirmary tents, going back, doing it over and over again to temporarily drown out the anguish which is gnawing at him from the inside, somehow driven by the knowledge that Bilbo would appreciate him doing the right thing at last, as well as by the utterly irrational hope that if he does his damnedest best to save those he can, then, by some higher justice, Bilbo will be spared, too. He knows things do not work that way, but it is all he can do to stop himself from losing his mind once more, this time not to gold but to guilt, grief and worry.

He couldn't say how many rounds he has done when he is returning with a wounded Elven archer, unconscious but alive, to be finally cornered by Óin. Thorin deposits the Elf on the floor where whoever is in charge of treating the wounded can help him – or is it a her? – intending to go back again when the healer's hand closes on his upper arm in an iron grip.

"That's been enough of rescue work for the time being," the old Dwarf says sternly.

"I'm fine--"

"That limp doesn't look fine to me," Óin shakes his head, obviously unmoved, "so you're not going anywhere until I see to it."

"Óin--"

"I'll simply clobber you on the head if I have to sedate you first to be able to treat your wounds, King or no King; don't make me do that, lad. I've got a heavy hand, you wouldn't want a splitting headache in addition to everything else."

With a sigh, Thorin gives in, pain and exhaustion finally taking their toll. His foot does indeed hurt like a buttcheek on a stick, which means that he obviously hasn't been doing it any good service by running to and fro. Besides, the wound might get infected, and that would surely lead to more serious consequences, which Thorin could definitely do without. So he allows himself to be led to a quieter corner, where he is forced down to sit by the fire made right on the stone floor, a basin with hot water and bandages – along with Óin's tools which look rather ominous – already laid out besides it.

"How's Kíli?" Thorin asks watching the healer cut the cuff of his trouser leg along with the stocking he is wearing to get to the wound on his foot.

"Patched up and breathing," Óin nods, not distracting from his current job. "Never thought I'd say that, but it's a blessing we've got all those Elves around. If anything, their healing skills are hard to surpass."

The scowl which Thorin feels ghost across his face is there out of sheer habit rather than caused by anything else, and it doesn't fail to surprise him, the absence of the old, deeply-integrated loathing and contempt he had been nursing for decades. He wonders if it will remain like this from now on, hoping that this lack of reaction in him isn't a fleeting condition, caused solely by witnessing an Elf save his boy's life right before his eyes. Without that deep-rooted hatred, it seems almost as if he can breathe more freely.

"What about the others?" he asks after a while. "I haven't seen Nori and Bifur anywhere, and I think I caught a glimpse of Glóin all bloodied up but I can't be sure."

"Aye, Glóin's got a nasty gash on his brow, but that looks worse than it really is. I haven't seen those two, either. Balin says they were on their own feet the last time he saw them, almost at the end of the battle," Óin confirms, clucking his tongue at the still bleeding hole in Thorin's foot. "Just how much of an idiot do you have to be to run around with this, you insufferable fool? I didn't save you all those times ever since you were a snotty Dwarfling for you to die of a blood infection because you're too stupidly heroic to ask for help."

Thorin grimaces as the wound in his foot is washed with a pungent-smelling liquid, which stings all the way to hell and back.

"I… didn't know it was that bad," he responds lamely, not wishing to admit that the only reason he put off coming back to the Mountain for so long was that he was simply terrified of the possibility of learning upon his return that Bilbo died in his absence.

Óin only curses under his breath in Khuzdul, obviously not buying a word of it.

"What about Bilbo?" Thorin finally asks, his voice not as steady as he wishes it to be no matter how hard he is trying to brace himself for the possible devastating news. "Have you seen Gandalf or heard anything of him?"

"Aye," Óin nods. "He told me to take you to him--" when Thorin gives a start, by nothing but pure instinct making an attempt to rise to his feet, the healer pulls him back down with his hand on his knee until Thorin sags ungracefully back onto the floor. " _\--once_ I've made sure you are alright. The sooner you stop making my job more difficult for me, the sooner you'll be on your way to see the Hobbit."

"So he's alive then?" Thorin murmurs, momentarily relieved but still too anxious knowing his hope might prove to be short-lived.

"I… think so," the healer replies, sounding reluctant and careful, making Thorin close his eyes because it sends yet another shot of dread through his heart. "He's with Gandalf, Thorin. The wizard will make sure Bilbo lives."

_At least until the moment you see him_ , hangs unsaid and oppressive in the close air stinking of blood and smoke and dirty bodies. Silently, Thorin curses himself for being so ridiculously cowardly as not to rush to find the wizard immediately once they had made the journey back from the Ravenhill.

When Thorin is finally given leave by Óin, his foot thickly bandaged and his other wounds and injuries here and there stitched or treated with a pungently smelling salve, which stings at his lips and eyebrow mercilessly, he heads straight for the upper level where he was told Gandalf is staying with Bilbo. He finds them in a small chamber he cannot quite remember but which obviously used to be somebody's living quarters if the furniture cluttered in the corner can be any indication. There is a fire going in the hearth and a few candles are lit around the room, bathing it in a dim, sickly yellowish glow.

The first person Thorin actually sees there is not the wizard but, improbably, Thranduil, mainly because his is so tall and large for the Dwarven room that he looms there like a bulk swathed in silver. It makes Thorin stare at the Woodland King in utter astonishment for a heartbeat or two as he lingers at the door, the old familiar hatred and resentment finally making themselves known for real, rising up his throat and making his face flush with anger. So not all of it is gone, then, he thinks as his fists clench all by themselves, a long-familiar reaction. He manages to check it in time, though, throttling the emotion before it has the chance to get the best of him. This is no time or place for a confrontation with the Elf, they have had enough fighting over the past few hours to last a lifetime. Besides, there is Gandalf in the room, too, which makes the Elf's presence perhaps a bit more explainable.

And then, only after registering the two tall figures present, do Thorin's eyes finally find the one he has come to see.

"Bilbo…" he breathes out with a jolt of panic which seems to freeze his heart as he enters the room, limping straight towards the cot on which the Hobbit lies, covered with quilts that look suspiciously Elven-made.

He is either asleep or unconscious, too small and too pale in the flickering light of the few candles. Not dead, Thorin tells himself, dismayed. Not dead, not his brave little burglar, he couldn't be…

"How's--" Thorin has to clear his throat because his voice gives in in the middle of what he is about to ask as he raises his eyes to the wizard's. "How's he?"

"Alive," Gandalf nods, looking less grim than he was back there on the Ravenhill but still nowhere near at ease, Thorin notes. "Improbable as it is. Hobbits don't seem to be the toughest of creatures in general but, luckily, this particular one had something rare and precious to protect him with."

The old wizard nods to the side, and as Thorin shifts his eyes from Bilbo's face to where Gandalf is looking, he can see the mild silvery glimpse of what must be Bilbo's mithril shirt.

"I gave it to him, as a gift, before…" Thorin breaks off, seemingly unable to raise his voice enough to go on, and nods, wincing because any recollection of his time in the Mountain between Smaug's demise and the moment when he was certain he was going to be consumed by the gold sickness and yet, somehow, wasn't causes him so much shame and regret he can almost feel it as a physical pain, a lot worse than the one throbbing in his wounded foot.

"It seems to have protected him from the worst. His coat and shirt were sliced to shreds."

"Aye, Azog slashed right at his middle as Bilbo jumped on him trying to save my miserable life. I would have – I _should_ have died to protect him but…"

"Stop it, Thorin," Gandalf shakes his head with a weary sigh. "It is lucky both of you are still living. King Thranduil here has graciously offered me his help in tending to Bilbo's injuries. I don't think I would have been able to do much without his assistance."

Thorin's eyes shoot towards the Elf, who until now has been standing silently on the other side of Bilbo's bed, to meet the cold steely gaze of the other King. His first impulse is to sneer at him, too much past resentment nowhere near being subdued, but he stops himself in time. The fact that Thranduil actually has fought in the battle alongside Dwarves placates his anger a little, and if what Gandalf has just told him is true, then he owes the loathsome Woodland King a debt he would never be able to repay no matter how much he tries, a debt to him and his kin and his soldiers, too, come to think of it, since it was Thranduil's son who upset Bolg's aim and then his Captain of Guard who saved Kíli's life, more than once.

As he stares up at the Elf, who is giving him a steady glare in which there is very little amiability and a lot of distaste, Thorin feels the wizard beside him tense, as if his and Thranduil's mutual aversion has managed to electrify the very air inside the small room. Thorin has to take a breath in and let it out slowly before he speaks – even though he does understand that he is the one who messed up the whole thing with the Elves and Thranduil's gems this time around, his pride and old grudges cannot be smothered in a moment. Thorin is going to do his best to achieve it, though. He has already done enough harm, and the testament to it is Bilbo lying injured before him, so he is willing to make himself refrain from confronting the very person who has allegedly saved his Hobbit's life, something Thorin himself has failed to do on numerous occasions even though he should have.

"Why?" is all he asks, his voice hoarse and incredulous.

Before Thranduil answers, he levels him with another icy glare.

"Because Gandalf asked me to," the Elf says evenly. "And because the Halfling didn't deserve to die in the war which wasn't his to fight in for the Throne which has nothing to do with him for someone he values more than his own life and yet who nearly took it away from him in his madness. I find it reckless but fascinatingly admirable. You owe everything to him, Thorin son of Thráin King under the Mountain; your freedom, your Throne, your sanity and your life."

Thorin drops his eyes for a moment, to Bilbo's face, pallid and motionless, and then raises them again to meet Thranduil's stare.

"And I thank you from the bottom of my heart for keeping him alive, King Thranduil," he grates, but the gratitude he nods with is sincere. There is something in Thranduil's cold blue eyes then, something which looks suspiciously like surprise, so Thorin goes on. "I can assure you that the treasure in this Mountain you have a claim for will be returned to your people, along with a generous reward for… for _this_."

"All I demand is that which belongs to my people. You can keep the reward you are talking about for someone else for I haven't done this for your sake, Thorin Oakenshield, do not flatter yourself too much."

With that, Thranduil turns on his heels and strides out of the room almost soundlessly, the only noise made being the rustling of the cloak he is wearing. Once he is gone, Thorin hears Gandalf let out a long sigh and feels the wizard's large hand squeeze on his shoulder, not in warning but in what seems to be support.

"Thank you for not making it more difficult," he mutters but Thorin is barely listening to him as all of his attention is now centred on Bilbo.

He lowers himself onto his knees beside the cot, powerlessly, covering one of Bilbo's hands with his own, with bruises and slashes and blood still caked on the Hobbit's knuckles.

"Will he make it?"

"I believe so, yes. I cannot tell for sure but it seems like he had a lot of bones in his body broken; it was a lucky chance that I managed to find Thranduil to give me a hand in this. His injuries were too much for even my abilities, but most of it is mending now."

"Is he unconscious or sleeping?" Thorin asks, almost sick of the thought of what Bilbo must have gone through to save one stupid Dwarven King, too proud, too resentful, too greedy, too blind, too much of everything which isn't anywhere near noble or honourable.

"He came around once, when we brought him here, asking for you, but we had to drug him into sleep to alleviate the pain he was in," Gandalf says behind him, his voice soft. "He will remain like this for a while, his body needs the healing rest."

Thorin finds himself not being able to say anything to that, mainly because his throat is suddenly strangled with tears which he desperately tries to hold back, tears of shame and sorrow and relief and love all somehow mingled together. Instead, he brings Bilbo's small hand to his mouth and presses a kiss there, biting his lower lip to somehow smother the pain until there is the metallic taste of blood on his tongue and the sting of salt on his chafed skin.

"I'm so sorry…" he whispers, not really knowing whether he is speaking to Bilbo or to the wizard. "I… all I've done here, ever since we entered the Mountain… I don't know how I will ever be able to look him in the eye, let alone make amends for it."

"You will certainly have to, but I think a King will handle a task like that well enough."

"I have brought it on him, all of it. I'm not sure he will ever forgive me," Thorin shakes his head, aghast with himself. "That is, if he ever wakes up at all."

"Bilbo has grown very fond of you, Thorin," the wizard says kindly. "Fond enough to fight for you and die for you, so the best thing you could do is stay alive and retain your wits about you not to make his sacrifice worthless. Speaking of which, what are you planning to do with the Arkenstone?"

Thorin flinches as if he was struck, the thought of the accursed heirloom making something tighten in his gut almost painfully.

"I don't want to see it ever again," he grinds, and even though it pains him to think of it, the old obsession still echoing somewhere deep within his very bones it seems, he is quite adamant about it. He has indeed managed to break away from its hold somehow, but he doesn't know whether it is permanent or if he will succumb to it once he lays his eyes on it. "I wouldn't have it in this Mountain. I would have you destroy it, if you know how to, before it destroys me."

With the corner of his eye, he sees the wizard nod in what seems to be approval.

"I can arrange for that, but it may cause some hindrance as far as uniting the Dwarven clans is concerned, though."

"Aye, but Erebor is reclaimed so it should be easier to accomplish now. Besides, I think I have someone who would be exceptionally useful in holding talks with them, someone who has learned to deal with the stubbornness of Dwarves quite well. That is, if he ever wakes up and wants anything to do with Dwarves ever again."

"I think it might indeed prove very fortunate that Bilbo Baggins was the one I chose to go on this adventure with you," Gandalf mutters quietly into his beard in that distracting manner of his.

"Fortunate? How fortunate is _this_?" Thorin hisses bitterly. "Dragged away from everything he holds dear, that peaceful life he used to lead in the Shire to be thrown into the midst of orcs and dragons and a king who got mad and went back on his word to protect him. That's hardly good fortune if you ask me."

"As far as I recall, you warned me at the very start of this journey that you would _not_ be responsible for his fate and safety," the wizard points out.

"I did, but I should have been. I'm not sure that _this_ is as fortunate as it could have gone for Bilbo."

"Well, you might disagree right now, Thorin Oakenshield, but I see it as very fortunate that you are here in your Mountain being in your right mind and that your nephews are both living, which is mostly the courtesy of this Hobbit."

"It is, and yet here Bilbo is," Thorin says quietly, guilt gnawing at something in the very core of him. "Why did you choose him, Gandalf? Did you know he would play such a huge part in all of this?"

"No. There are few people in Middle-Earth who can foresee future, and I am not one of them. But I have a sufficient amount of intelligence and intuition, and I sensed Bilbo could be the right person to help you and that you could help him in return."

"Help him with what? Getting himself killed in various painful and violent ways?" Thorin snorts angrily.

"No," the wizard explains patiently. "But saving him from unhappiness, my dear Dwarf."

"Was he unhappy?" Thorin asks, taken aback and sceptical. He learnt about the reason of Bilbo's sadness, but sadness is one thing, and unhappiness is an entirely different matter. "From what I remember about his place, he was a well-off Hobbit enjoying his days in peace, planting his flowers and writing his books. Until we all pounced on him out of the blue with orcs and dragons and ancient prophecies."

"Indeed, and he would have probably lived a long miserable life and then died at a ripe old age in loneliness amongst his books and flowers. Of course, he might have died here on this reckless Quest of yours, but he didn't. Instead, I hope he has found a family he missed so direly ever since his parents had passed away. I also hope he has a certain King to treat him with love and kindness for all his troubles and pains when he wakes up."

Thorin gives the wizard a long hard look and then lowers his gaze back to Bilbo's hand in his, shaking his head with a small, wretched half-smile.

"Why do I have a feeling that you somehow planned all this in advance?"

"I do not have the gift of foresight, Thorin Oakenshield, as I have already said. I merely have common sense and quite a lot of experience, which told me that the two of you might prove to be helpful to each other in the end. I think I wasn't mistaken, after all."

"So you approve of this?" Thorin asks, not specifying what he means but supposing the wizard, with all his damned common sense, intuition, experience and whatnot, will get the idea. He cannot quite specify it even to his own self for the time being, anything besides the part that he loves Bilbo and knows that he needs him by his side desperately, like any Dwarrow would need his One.

Gandalf, true to himself and his annoying habit of speaking in riddles, only smiles at him with a twinkle in his eye. "As long as you promise to take proper care of my burglar."

This time, Thorin does smile, and the motion of his lips feels almost unnatural on his face, a familiar but so long-forgotten thing. Yet it gives him hope, too, just like Gandalf's words do. Somehow, having the wizard on his side in what he is intending to do – persuading Bilbo to stay with him, which for some reason seems to prove to be a rather daunting task knowing the stubbornness and practicality of Hobbits – is extremely reassuring. That is, if Bilbo wakes up, and the thought wipes away what poor semblance of a smile there was on his face.

"The best of care," he nods, still looking at the Hobbit and his small hand in his. It cannot be as soft as it was back when they left the Shire, roughened by the elements, hauling heavy backpacks here and there and wielding the little sword of his, but it is still very tender in comparison with Thorin's own, delicate and frighteningly fragile in his rough one. "Gandalf?"

"Yes?" the wizard asks, already at the door.

"Why did Thranduil do it? He could have left Bilbo to die and made me as miserable as could be. He never had any sympathy for my people or myself. He was under no obligation to save anyone dear to me. In fact, he didn't, before."

"I suppose you didn't read your history books attentively enough when you were a young prince here, did you?" Gandalf asks, though his voice doesn't sound accusatory. "On second thought, that might not have caught your attention anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"Thranduil is one of the oldest of his kind still dwelling in Middle-Earth. He's had a long life filled with many events you could hardly imagine, Thorin. He wasn't always like this, distant and cold and reserved. Once he was more like his other kin, those from Rivendell or Lothlorien, friendlier, more cheerful and sensitive to others as Elves tend to be, not this secretive, arrogant and secluded."

When Thorin only raises his brows at the wizard in a mixture of surprise and incredulity, Gandalf nods.

"He had a wife once, Legolas's mother, and as you must know, Elves love but once. She was killed back in Gundabad. Her body was never found, with the only memories left of her being their only son and the white gems of Lasgalen which still lie here somewhere in this very Mountain."

When Gandalf falls silent for a moment, all Thorin can do is stare back at him in speechless shock. Those damned gems which caused such a strife between their peoples, Thranduil's family heirloom which he was willing to start a war over. All of a sudden, Thorin finds himself almost empathising with the Woodland sprite, averse though he is to be feeling it. If anything, however, he thinks he can now start to comprehend at least some of Thranduil's motives – after all, he, too, nearly took a life for his people's legacy, that damned stone which nearly drove him mad. Not just any life. Bilbo's life. His Beloved's life. Was the war Thranduil was ready to wage on Dwarves any different from his own misdeed?

"The only other reminder of her that still exists, apart from their child and those gems Thranduil covets so much, is a statue at the entrance to Mirkwood you passed through, put there as a sign of devotion and remembrance, but I believe it serves more as a personification of his grief rather than anything else. The Woodland King is exceptionally good at hiding his scars, both those on his face and body, and those he has on his soul. He has never recovered from her loss, and his cold and impassive demeanour is perhaps the only thing which still keeps him together. Your story isn't all too unlike his, Thorin Oakenshield, with the only difference that he lost someone dear and has but a memory left in the form of those gems he seeks to return, whereas you were fortunate enough to lose a stone and keep the person."

"I never really knew this," Thorin murmurs under his breath, stunned to the core.

Still, even if he had known it before, it would likely have made no difference as far as his attitude to the Elvenking went because it is only now that he has begun to comprehend the extent of grief Thranduil must have been suffering from for hundreds upon hundreds of years. He isn't sure he would want a life like that for himself, being suddenly glad that Dwarves are mortal. For them, grief does have an end at least, or so he hopes.

"I still don't believe he saved Bilbo out of sheer compassion for, of all people, me, however," Thorin shakes his head in confusion. What he doesn't say is that he doesn't believe Thranduil can be compassionate in the first place, but…

"Perhaps not entirely, but he knows what grief is, Thorin. He is also reasonable enough and old enough to know that grief may push people to extremes, and when it is the King under the Lonely Mountain, which practically lies on the borders of his own kingdom, that could be consumed by sorrow and madness, I think he could lend a helping hand to prevent that, if only to safeguard his own people from another utterly needless confrontation. Besides, I do think he took a certain liking to Bilbo after he had smuggled you all out of his dungeons and then the Arkenstone from under your own nose. And anyway, Elves have never really had any strife with Halflings."

"It seems everyone becomes fond of Bilbo sooner or later," Thorin nods with a small smile, unable to restrain the bitterness in his voice, though.

"Aye, and you would be well-advised to keep that in mind. As I said, I do think it is very fortunate for you to have him by your side."

*

Bilbo doesn't wake up any time soon, though, to Thorin's utter dismay. What is worse, he cannot stay by Bilbo's bed as much as he wishes – he would gladly distribute his time between checking on Kíli, who is recovering slowly but surely thanks to all the care he receives from Óin and the Elvish healers, and sitting by his Hobbit's side holding hand, but Erebor cannot be rebuilt and the life in it cannot be organised all on its own. As it is, what Thorin has got on his hands is a partly ruined and very much disused Dwarven city to put back in order, too many wounded and injured to take care of, an army from the Iron Hills to feed and lodge there, the gold in the treasury to be assessed and the promised shares of it paid to those who have a rightful claim on it. Besides, the refugees from Laketown will need help, and Thorin knows he owes it to Bard and thus his people, too, that he has his homeland back in the first place. There is a string of meetings held one after another with Dwarves and Elves and Men, sometimes all of them together, and work is already underway so that by the first real frosts and snowfalls of the oncoming winter they would not be left stranded amongst ruins with no provision to die of cold and hunger. Dale and Erebor need to be made liveable enough for everyone to survive the following months. Thankfully, though, Thorin has some experience of being a good leader in times of crisis, and this time he is no homeless and desperate Dwarrow with a bunch of fatigued and hungry Erebor refugees following him. He has his Mountain, and his people, and gold enough to restore everything back to its former glory.

The only problem is that he can barely focus on the task at hand, his mind stubbornly drifting off to Bilbo, and grief and guilt prove to be an exhausting business.

There is another matter to settle, though, perhaps an even more urgent one – to convince the Elves and Men that he is in his right mind, which is not that simple after the past several weeks he spent not making a very splendid King out of himself, thoroughly ashamed as he is to admit it. Gandalf's support in it is invaluable, even though none of the great figures among all the races present here are particularly fond of the old wizard that many call a harbinger of grave news. Not Thorin, though, not anymore – Bilbo is still living thanks to Gandalf, who in fact proved to be true to his word, unlike Thorin himself, and did manage to save the Hobbit's life in the end. What convinces the Elves and Men in Thorin's sanity is his willingness to let go of the Arkenstone, which, unfortunately, doesn't work quite like that with his own people – the news has Dáin raging, calling him numerous less than favourable things, and it takes all of Thorin's rather stretched patience to try to explain it to his cousin that it has to be done. He isn't sure Dáin is completely convinced in the end, but he gives in all the same, even if grudgingly – after all, it was Thorin standing on the battlements of Erebor who greeted the army from the Iron Hills, Thorin and his ragged Company, the only Dwarves that had dared to answer his call. The Mountain is his, by birth right as well as because he and his Company have actually managed to reclaim it. Dáin would not argue with that, no matter his opinion on Thorin's intentions in terms of the damned stone.

Meetings, negotiations and clearing the debris take most of Thorin's daytime, with a quarter of an hour snatched from time to time to check on Kíli and Bilbo. He's not concerned about his nephew, not anymore, because the lad is left in the reliable hands of Óin and Tauriel, who look after him diligently, Kíli's obvious infatuation with the Elf working as a catalyst to his recovery it seems. The only doubt still left is whether Kíli will ever be able to use his left arm to its full capacity, but for the time being it is too early to worry about that – the wound itself needs to heal first to be able to tell.

Everything is much less certain with Bilbo, though, the Hobbit not waking up for days and no one really knowing what to do about it. Gandalf seems to be positive that it is just a matter of time before he does, claiming that his body needs healing sleep to recuperate properly, and Thorin can do nothing but take his word for it. Besides, he tells himself, feeling more than a bit desperate, if that red-head Captain of Thranduil's Guard was able to treat Kíli's horrendous wounds poisoned by Morgul venom all by herself, then surely the King of the Woodland Realm himself with Gandalf's assistance would have enough power to heal his little burglar. As to what Bilbo's injuries were like to require the magic of the Elvenking to treat them in the first place, Thorin doesn't want to even start to wonder about.

During the day, the rest of the Company take turns to stay by Bilbo's side, never leaving him alone, for which Thorin is immensely grateful to them. Balin, Bofur, Ori and, surprisingly, Dwalin are particularly willing to keep an eye on the Hobbit, having become very close to him over the course of their journey and especially during the time they spent in the Mountain after Smaug was killed. That said, though, should he really be that surprised? The warrior's soft spot for little ones is known to everyone who is close to him, and even though Bilbo isn't that young in age, he is most certainly small enough to have made Dwalin warm up to him all the same. The other three have been fond of Bilbo right from the beginning of their journey, taking an almost instant liking to the agile and practical Hobbit, while Thorin himself chose to remain a blind and prejudiced fool for months on end.

Nights are his alone, though. Thorin spends them sitting on the folded quilt on the floor by the cot, holding Bilbo's hand in his, watching him sleep and occasionally talking to him. His heart desperately yearns to be closer, to take the Hobbit into the safety of his arms where no one would manage to hurt him again, but Thorin doesn't dare touch any part of Bilbo's body save for his hand for fear of actually hurting him with his own hands.

The rest stay away whenever he is with Bilbo, giving him enough privacy so that he could shed his tears and speak the words of love and beg for forgiveness without unwilling witnesses. He cannot quite pinpoint the moment when everyone knew about him and the Hobbit, they just did, without asking, perhaps long before he realised it himself, the idiot that he stubbornly chose to be. Thorin cannot really say for sure when exactly he fell in love with him, either; whether it was that time he held Bilbo in his arms for the first time on top of Carrock; or before that, right after they had escaped from the Goblin caves under the Misty Mountains, when Bilbo had miraculously appeared out of nowhere safe and sound, claiming that he would be glad to help them reclaim their home, looking earnest and kind; or even earlier than that, back in Rivendell when Bilbo had tried to comfort him, making Thorin perceive him in an utterly new light. Or perhaps he fell in love with Bilbo the very first time he laid his eyes on him, wishing to see any traces of burglar in his round, beardless face and failing miserably, seeing honest wide-open eyes looking up into his with wonder and those honey-coloured curls framing his face instead.

The room Bilbo is currently in has been cleared from the clutter and cleaned over the past week, as much of it as could have been done without making too much noise so as not to disturb him. A part of the old broken furniture has been removed, leaving the place airy and tidy, and the fireplace has been cleaned so that it could be used in order to keep the room comfortable enough for the warmth-loving Hobbit. Thorin would put flowers here, too, reckoning Bilbo would be glad to wake up to something as pleasing to his eye as green and blooming things have always been, but with the incipient winter and the dropping temperatures there is nothing left on the slopes of the Mountain except for a few scraggly and twisted pines, which only by some miracle have managed to survive Smaug's wrath. He isn't sure Bilbo would appreciate him either cutting or digging up a whole tree just to cheer him up, so he leaves the pines be.

Instead, he ventured to the treasury – not without a heavy heart and with more than a small twist of fear in his gut as he stepped into the great vaulted chamber filled with hills and hills of gold and precious stones. To his profound relief, though, the madness that had possessed him when he had beheld it for the first time didn't seem to be intent on returning, for now, anyway. He didn't spend too long down there, a quarter of an hour or so being more than enough for him to find what he was looking for – candle holders cast in the shape of various flowers, which had been, as far as he could recall, on trend in the days of his adolescence, so there were quite a few to be found even in those great troves of treasure. The stems were wrought of silver and gold, intertwined to make a sophisticated composition with delicate petals made of precious stones to adorn them. These aren't anywhere near real flowers, and he is certain Bilbo would scoff at him for even thinking of comparing this artificial substitution with the real ones, but it is the only thing which somehow manages to remind Thorin himself why he is spending his days and nights by the Hobbit's bed while there are things to settle in his own kingdom. Sometimes, gold and jewels are nothing but that, a mere make-believe of the real things which are way more precious.

Now, as the candles are lit, the flame is infiltrating through the almost transparent branes of stones throwing mild colourful glimpses of light on the walls of the room. They will have to wait till spring, and then he will be willing to lay all the flowers in Middle-Earth at his Hobbit's feet.

That is, if his Hobbit ever wakes up at all.

Thorin forbids himself to venture out into those dangerous territories. If Bilbo doesn't wake up, it is likely enough that the grief will do him in for good, resurrecting the madness which might just have retreated back into the very depths of his being instead of leaving him be, and in that case, there will be only one possible solution for him – to seek and face his death valiantly somewhere else before he turned into what Thrór once became. Luckily for him, times aren't all too peaceful, so he might find a suitable skirmish to try to end his life honourably.

He doesn't need to provoke it with his miserable thoughts now, at the very least. Gandalf assured him Bilbo will come to sooner or later, so he has to trust the wizard on that, but it is hard, oh so very hard when he spends most of the night by Bilbo's side, watching his motionless figure swathed in blankets, his pale face with the fading bruises and healing cuts on it, so still and so expressionless. It breaks Thorin's heart over and over again, the guilt and regret and shame all mixing together into a bitter mixture, an impotent desire to have made things right instead of nearly destroying everything he held dear, his kingdom, the lives of his nephews, of his friends and then of his beloved, too.

Looking back and having a chance to contemplate everything which happened before with a sober mind, he knows he should have told Bilbo about his love before they entered Erebor; shouldn't have waited for the moment which would seem right and which he knew very well might never come. He should have protected Bilbo from the dragon and from himself and then from those armies of filth which took them unawares. Instead, he brooded over his treasure, not much different from Smaug, in fact, hiding from the world, allowing others to fight in his war, allowing them to die for him while he considered scurrying into the deepest tunnels below the Mountain like a cowardly thief he accused Bilbo of being. Aye, he has finally seen the error of his ways, but it might be that he has seen it too late, after all. Being left alone and grieving would be a punishment suitable enough for everything he did to Bilbo, but still Thorin cherishes a hope that he will be spared that punishment now. He is willing to make things right, every single little thing there is to be made right, if only Bilbo doesn't leave him here alone. It is a childishly naïve way to think, he knows it, but what is there left for him but pray to all the deities there are in Middle-Earth that he be left with the only treasure he cares about to be able to live what remains of their lives with him, atoning for what he did.

As Thorin crouches beside the cot Bilbo is lying on, he lets his head rest on the side of the Hobbit's pillow and buries his nose in those fair curls, which have always begged him to just card his fingers through their softness. Bilbo's hair is matted now, with dirt and blood still in it, even though combed and pushed away from his pale face.

"Stay with me, my love," Thorin whispers, his fingers trifling with the longish strands so gingerly as if they were made of gossamer spiderwebs of molten glass and could fall to pieces from a careless touch. In a sense, this is what Bilbo is, a small, delicate treasure that was given to him so that he could protect him and cherish him, which Thorin has miserably failed to accomplish. "Don't leave me just yet, don't go away from me before I could atone for what I have done and worship you the way you deserve, my priceless jewel."

There is no answer but Bilbo's quiet breathing – there never is – so Thorin closes his eyes, praying to whatever higher powers are willing to listen to him that his Hobbit will wake up. It doesn't even matter if he will only wake up to never forgive him; just seeing him open his eyes and be himself again would be enough. He could live with that, Thorin thinks, unhappily yet having the consolation of knowing that Bilbo is fine, safe and sound no matter what he may think of Thorin.

He falls asleep like that, head resting beside Bilbo's, his hand protectively curled over his thin shoulder.

When he is dragged out of his interrupted sleep next time, more of a torment than proper rest, it isn't yet morning – even though there is no light here except for the smouldering ambers in the fireplace, he senses it through the body of rock itself, the ability possessed by all Children of the Stone. Thorin blinks at the darkness for a few moments, struggling to understand what it is that got him awake, groggy from the poor and insufficient sleep he has had over the past… the truth is, he cannot quite remember when he slept long and sound enough the last time.

What brings him to reality is a barely perceptible motion beside him, followed by a sigh which resembles a pained gasp way too much for his liking. His eyes shoot open the moment the understanding dawns on him.

"Bilbo…" Thorin mouths, voicelessly, his breath caught in the middle of his throat, as he lifts himself on one elbow to be able to look at the Hobbit properly. "Bilbo…" he repeats, this time managing to force a sound out of his mouth, even if it comes out hoarse and broken.

He watches the Hobbit's eyelids twitch in the darkness only slightly dispelled by the low glow coming from the fireplace, and finds himself praying again, begging every single higher power he knows of that it wouldn't be a dream, that he wouldn't wake up the following moment to Bilbo lying still and pallid as he has been for days. It seems like it takes a whole eternity for those eyes to finally crack open, slowly, then close again, a grimace crossing the Hobbit's face. He blinks a few more times before he is finally able to focus his gaze on Thorin's face. There is a sense of dread rising up in him like bile when there is no recognition whatsoever in Bilbo's eyes for quite some time. He stares down at his Hobbit with a silent plea, the growing dismay making him feel simultaneously hot and cold and shivering. Then Bilbo blinks again and his gaze becomes a bit more focused. Then it shifts as it travels over his face, slowly, ever so slowly.

"Thorin?" he finally murmurs, almost soundlessly.

Thorin has to blink a few times and then swallow past the choking lump in his throat before he manages to find his tongue, tears stinging his eyes as he tries to prevent them from spilling. If he allows a single one to fall, he will simply break down right in front of Bilbo, and they could surely do without it at this particular moment in time.

"Yes, my love," he whispers at last, his voice almost painfully raw, and nods.

"You're alive then?"

"I am," he confirms with another nod and another wretched sob he simply cannot hold back.

"Good," Bilbo mutters as his eyelids slip shut again, sending another icicle of dread through Thorin's heart. "Am I?"

"Yes, _ghivashel_ ," he whispers, brushing back a few stray strands of hair off the Hobbit's brow as tenderly as if he were some apparition about to disappear if touched.

"I feel like a herd of orcs trampled all over me," Bilbo goes on, his voice hoarse from disuse, and swallows, the click in his throat all to audible in the stillness of the night around them.

"Something like that, but you will be fine, my love." Thorin leans in to bring Bilbo's small hand to his lips and places a kiss on the back of it, trying to somehow convey all the love and devotion he carries for him. "You'll be alright, I'll make sure you are alright."

Bilbo only sighs in reply, the sound coming out a little shaky, and then a wince crosses his features again, which Thorin doesn't like the look of at all.

"Do you want anything?" he asks. "To eat or drink? Are you in pain? I can fetch Óin if something's bothering you."

"No," Bilbo says as he opens his eyes again, locking them with Thorin's. "Don't leave."

"I won't, my treasure," he leans in to murmur against Bilbo's cheek, relief washing over him so intense he feels almost dizzy with it. Bilbo lives. He remembers him. He still wants him around. It will be alright. They will be alright now. "I will stay with you and take care of you."

Beneath his lips, Thorin feels a faintest of smiles stretching the corner of Bilbo's mouth.

He seems to drift off to sleep again almost immediately after that, most probably too exhausted by his attempt to stay conscious and focused for that long, but Thorin remains awake all the way until morning, unable and unwilling to close his eyes for a single moment lest he miss anything. Instead, he strokes his little, brave, strong Hobbit's head and rubs his cheek with the pad of his thumb, ever so cautiously not wishing to disturb him but at the same time trying to reassure Bilbo of his presence. Closer to morning Bilbo wakes up once more, disturbed by something else, a choked gasp wrenched out of his throat and an unformed scream dying down as he tosses his head until it bumps into Thorin's arm.

"Bilbo…" he calls, placing his hands on both sides of the Hobbit's head to prevent him from thrashing and possibly hurting himself. "Wake up, wake up, my love. Bilbo?"

Bilbo does, with another gasp and a start and a following moan of, unmistakably, pain, the sound searing through Thorin's heart. There are tears spilling from the Hobbit's eyes, big clear tears, and Thorin doesn't even know whether those are tears of fear from whatever nightmare he has been trapped in, or pain, or worse, both of it. There are a few hurt whimpers leaving Bilbo's mouth, his brow covering with perspiration right beneath Thorin's hand, which alarms him even further.

"Shhh, Bilbo, I'm here, everything's alright, it's alright," he tries to soothe wishing he could take the pain away from his Hobbit's frightened and swimming eyes. "Breathe, just breathe with me. You're safe, it's alright, my love. It's alright."

Bilbo does as he was bid, breathing with Thorin, and his ragged inhales and exhales do calm down a little, the pained gasps subside, and more awareness lights up in his eyes. The tears don't go away, though, and Bilbo ends up weeping silently into Thorin's shoulder, his hand coming up to tangle weakly into his hair. It leaves Thorin feeling so horribly impotent he is on the verge of weeping with Bilbo, and all he can do is hold him the best he can, too afraid to hurt him with a careless motion and yet not daring to move an inch away. Thankfully, it seems to get better after a while, Bilbo's crying abating to a few occasional sniffs, and Thorin takes it as a cue to lean back so that he could look at him properly.

"It was just a dream, Bilbo," he murmurs, wiping the moisture off Bilbo's cheeks. "Just a bad dream."

"I dreamed Azog got you," he whispers back, sounding utterly devastated. "You and the others, and I was left utterly alone, Thorin…"

"It's over now; I'm here with you. Azog's dead, we won that battle and everyone you know is alright, everyone's safe now. It's all over. There won't be any battles anymore."

By way of a reply, there is only a shuddering breath Thorin doesn't even know of what, whether relief or pain or fear or something else entirely.

"Are you in pain?" he asks because Bilbo just keeps looking back at him with red and swollen eyes and with a grimace on his face. "Does it hurt much?"

"I can't understand what does…" his Hobbit replies and he might well not understand it indeed because, if Gandalf is to be trusted, his _everything_ must hurt. "What happened? All I can recall is Azog sitting across your chest with that blade of his at…" he falters, looking more anguished by the second. "Or did I dream all of that?"

"You saved me, my brave little burglar," Thorin soothes him and then winces, not particularly pleased with having to relive the moment again, but he supposes Bilbo should be calmer if he knew at least some of what happened. "You… you hit your head and your back against the rock, but Gandalf and the Elvenking patched you up nicely, and they say you're healing just fine, my sun."

"Oh, that explains a lot then," Bilbo wrinkles his nose, the motion tugging at the corner of Thorin's mouth because this is so essentially his little Hobbit – he would smile if he weren't so worried right now.

"I'll get Óin to see you, alright? It'll just take a few minutes and then I'll be back with you. I'm sure he'll have something for the pain."

When Bilbo blinks his consent, Thorin rises from the bed but not before placing another reassuring kiss on his brow.

Once out of the room, Thorin all but sprints to where the healer is staying, next to what used to be a smaller, secondary throne room in the days of his grandfather's reign and which is serving as a temporary infirmary now. He rouses not only Óin but most certainly everyone in the vicinity with his half-panicked, half-agitated calls. Up in the blink of an eye – a fit of prowess given the Dwarf's age and build – Óin only pauses to grab his pouch with whatever instruments and concoctions he keeps there and follows Thorin, still wearing nothing but his nightshirt and trousers, his grey hair in utter disarray. Before he opens the door of the room where Bilbo is, the healer stops and turns around so abruptly Thorin barely manages to avoid crashing right into him.

"Thorin!" he half-hisses, half-barks, taking him completely by surprise. "Calm down. The last thing I need is you to pass out on me. Breathe, that's right, in and out, deep and slow, there's a good lad." He nods when Thorin closes his mouth and indeed takes a few breaths to steady himself. He didn't even realise he was this wound up, but that is to be expected in the circumstances such as these perhaps.

"I'm just…" he starts, wretchedly.

"At your wits' end and worried sick, I know. We all are."

With that, he enters the room and the moment his eyes set upon Bilbo, his face breaks into a smile, gladness almost literally washing off him.

"Bilbo!" He proceeds to the cot already rummaging through his healer's pouch. To Thorin's relief, Bilbo actually manages a wan smile, even though his eyes are still red and swollen. "You did give us all such a scare, laddie. Don't you ever--"

"Sorry, but I had a King to save. Again."

Bilbo's voice sounds light enough but it nearly makes Thorin recoil as he comes to kneel on the other side of the cot, shame and regret resurfacing with a new force. He remains silent because he cannot come up with anything which could possibly sound adequate, though.

"You did save so much more than just a king, Master Baggins," Óin murmurs. "And I can't even begin to express how glad I am to see you alive and conscious. Now, let me examine you."

As Óin goes on to prod at Bilbo, checking his eyes and head and asking him all sorts of questions, Thorin just stays quietly beside him, silently feasting his gaze on the sight of his Hobbit breathing and speaking, alive and hopefully on the mend for sure now. Gandalf and Thranduil and Óin, along with a few other Elven healers, had a whole council by Bilbo's bed as to the best way for his recovery, so Thorin is certain the old Dwarf knows what he is doing, and it seems all that is left for Thorin to do is sit quietly by Bilbo's side and not able to do a single damn thing to help. Perhaps, that is for the best – after all, whenever he was supposed to help, things tended to go very much pear-shaped.

"Now, we'll need to put you in a more vertical position. You've been lying for way too long without movement with those bruised ribs of yours, and I don't particularly like that rattling in your chest. You need to sit up from time to time to prevent fluids from accumulating in your lungs. Thorin," Óin addresses him for the first time in a while, making him jerk to attention. "I'll need your help with this."

"Óin, I can probably manage--" Bilbo starts but is unceremoniously interrupted by both Thorin's and Óin's voices uttering resolute _'No!'_ and _'No way.'_

It turns out the Hobbit actually has enough strength to roll his eyes, which must be yet another small sign of his recovery, or so Thorin dearly hopes. The sass should never go out of his burglar, as far as he is concerned.

"You're not to strain anything in your body at all, understood?" Óin asks severely enough to make Bilbo almost duck his head. "We'll do the job for you. Might still hurt, though, so be ready for that. Thorin, help me from your side, but gently, no jerking him."

Thorin gives the healer an affronted glare for even assuming that he could be so careless, but Óin ignores it expertly enough. Together, they manage to get Bilbo into a reclining position, but the gasp of pain which the Hobbit in unable to suppress hurts Thorin almost physically, too. In a heartbeat, his arms are wrapped around Bilbo's shoulders, lips pressed to his temple, as he whispers soothing nonsense against his skin. Momentarily, he wonders how in the world he even managed to survive Bilbo's injuries on the day of the battle if pretty much any wince and gasp of pain of his makes him nigh on physically sick now. It must have been a blessing indeed not to be present when Gandalf and Thranduil did whatever magic was required to right the damage Bilbo had sustained.

"'m fine, Thorin, you old fuss," Bilbo sighs, carefully easing himself into the pillows propped against the wall behind him. "I'm fine."

"When you breathe, do it slowly and try to inhale deeply. We don't need any lung infection in addition to all else. Now, drink this, it'll dull the pain for a while," Óin instructs as he hands Bilbo a vial with a thick grassy-looking green substance.

"Will it drug me down? I guess the fog in my head comes from something like that."

"The fog in your head comes from your head being smashed against a stone wall," Óin mutters displeased. "It will sedate you, yes, but not immediately. It'll relieve the pain and then you might feel sleepy, but it'll give us enough time to put something into your stomach first. It must be sticking to your spine already. That bear of a skin-changer would have our guts for garters should he see how skinny you've grown, what with all his fuss about fat little Halflings."

This makes Bilbo smile, and the smile makes Thorin's heart so much warmer and so much lighter.

"Beorn's here, too?"

"Half the Middle-Earth seems to be here, if you ask me," Óin grumbles motioning his head at the vial in Bilbo's hand with a meaningful tweak of his eyebrows. "Drink that up, fella, or I'll prod at you some more till it really hurts again. And, Your Majesty, don't be sitting there like a bloody log with eyes," Óin turns his strict gaze to Thorin, apparently nowhere near done with schooling either of them. "Go to the kitchens, Bombur must already be up, there's broth, get a bowl but don't put there anything else, just the liquid, I'm not sure Bilbo's stomach is in the right condition to accept anything but it, and I'd rather not have him vomit all of it immediately. There's honey, too, bring it along with a cup of hot water, there's a good chap."

Bilbo stares back at Óin with his mouth open, looking almost comical, and it tears an unexpected laugh out of Thorin. And, by Mahal, it feels good to be able to do it again.

"Aye, Master Healer, Sir," he sighs, desperately wishing to stay with Bilbo but knowing Óin is right – the Hobbit needs some food in him. Before he leaves, though, he leans in to Bilbo, hand on his cheek and his lips pressing to the other one in a firm kiss. "I love you," he murmurs against it, hoping that it sounds reassuring enough.

He still doesn't know what exactly Bilbo thinks of him after what he did ever since the moment they had entered the Mountain what feels like ages ago – after everything he did wrong. He woke up calling for Thorin, aye, but that might have been caused solely by pain, shock and fear. He still has a lot of explaining to do and apologies to make before he is able to look Bilbo squarely in the eye again without lowering his gaze in shame and regret. That can wait, though. Right now, his primary task is making sure Bilbo is recovering, and that means going to fetch him breakfast.

Later, they do manage to feed the Hobbit some broth and coerce him to take a few spoonfuls of honey, Elven-made if the jar containing it could be any indication, so perhaps it's not just honey but something medicinal, too, while answering Bilbo's questions about the rest of the Company. Óin leaves the two of them once his examination is finished and he has made sure Bilbo has something in his stomach to sustain him through the morning, promising to return by noon for another check-up and with another portion of the medicine.

"Dáin's expecting you in the afternoon," he adds, making Thorin sigh his acknowledgement, and not without annoyance. "Will give you hell if you keep ignoring him, you know the old boar."

"Why have you been ignoring him?" Bilbo asks once the door is shut behind the healer.

He sounds tired and drowsy, so Thorin doesn't particularly wish to trouble him with nothing of significant importance.

"I haven't really," he says dismissively, almost glad for Bilbo's condition, otherwise the Hobbit would be certain to suspect something. "He's been doing his best at keeping some sort of order here, what with the reconstruction and oncoming winter and other matters, and I've been so caught up between you and Kíli and helping to clear the rubble all over the place and endless meetings that I could hardly find time to see him."

"Kíli?" Bilbo raises his eyebrows, worried.

"He's doing alright; had a nasty sword wound in his shoulder, but there's no danger anymore and it's healing nicely. Dwarves are a sturdy folk; it was you who gave us all the biggest scare," he murmurs brushing his knuckles against Bilbo's temple. The way his Hobbit leans into the touch makes the brittle hope that has been barely kindling in his heart flare just a bit brighter.

"Sorry about that," Bilbo sighs, not sounding anywhere near regretful, though.

"Bilbo…" Thorin calls and relocates his finger under Bilbo's chin to urge the Hobbit to look at him. "It is me who should be sorry, and, trust me, I am, most profoundly sorry for everything that went wrong because of me."

Bilbo opens his mouth but closes it again, his soft eyes looking back at Thorin with a mild expression in them he doesn't trust himself to interpret.

"I am truly sorry for everything I did ever since we'd entered the Mountain. It was… I was… forgive me, Bilbo. I promised to protect you and keep you safe, yet I did exactly the opposite, hurting you instead and nearly…" he chokes on his own words, unable to even utter it now. _Nearly killed you with my bare hands_ , he needs to say but the words are stuck in his throat. "You should never have been up there on the Ravenhill, and I failed you even then when you were beside me. I am so sorry."

"Thorin, all I wanted was for you to live, and I would have done the same thing," Bilbo says soothingly, making Thorin marvel at his kind and noble nature yet again.

"I was out of my mind. Most of my time here, I was insane enough to threaten you--"

"And I would have still saved you," Bilbo's voice sounds so grave Thorin doesn't quite understand if it speaks of forgiveness or the opposite. And then he adds, ever so solemnly, "Because I love you."

The confession is so sincere and so simple that it leaves Thorin speechless for a few moments. This is what he dreamt of before they entered the Mountain and what he has nearly lost all hope of hearing ever since the day of the battle, when he finally came to his senses and was able to comprehend everything he had done wrong and then had to watch Bilbo nearly die in his arms. And now that, improbably, it has come, all he can actually do is sit and stare back at Bilbo, tears which he refuses to let flow choking him. Pinching his eyelids shut and pursing his lips, he lowers his head and buries his face in Bilbo's lap, arms loosely encircling his middle, unable to squeeze a single word out of his mouth. This might not be his most glorious moment, but Bilbo's hands in his hair massaging his scalp are a consolation he perhaps doesn't deserve to have.

"I owe everything to you, my love," Thorin finally manages, his voice ragged and hoarse. "My home, my throne, my sanity and my life, everything I have, Bilbo…"

"Thorin, please, look at me…" Bilbo's distressed voice is what rouses him immediately. It sounds pained, too, and thick with tears of his own. "Come here."

Without a word, Thorin does lean in, sliding his arm behind Bilbo's neck carefully and taking him in his embrace, lips pressing to his face in a peppering of featherlight pecks.

"I'll never be able to settle this debt but I swear I'll spend the rest of my life trying to repay at least some part of it."

He is surprised to feel Bilbo pressing their foreheads together this time around, the Hobbit's breath soft on his face.

"I was terrified you'd die right before my eyes, Thorin," the Hobbit murmurs, his voice pinched. "That you'd be taken away from me just like that, in the blink of an eye. I thought everything was lost, the battle and the Mountain and--"

"Nothing's lost, my heart. Everything will be fine now."

"I thought you'd die still thinking I was a traitor who betrayed you and your trust and your people," Bilbo murmurs on, his voice quiet but now devastated as well, and something else breaks inside of Thorin as he hears that. So it was his fault, too, Bilbo being on the Ravenhill, where he had absolutely no business being, risking his life in an attempt to prove to Thorin that he wasn't a traitor he had accused him of being… Gods have mercy.

"Bilbo, my dearest, my bravest little heart," he says as he moves back an inch or two to be able to look the Hobbit in the eye. "You saved us all, you did something no one else had enough courage to do, not even my own kin. I owe everything to you; this is all yours, every single thing you see around by right belongs to you, although I know you have little love for stone and treasures. My heart belongs to you, too, Bilbo, if ever you have any inclination to accept it."

"Stay with me," Bilbo whispers, with new tears on his cheeks and Thorin cannot look at them, he just can't, they will surely be his undoing. 

"You are stuck with me, my burglar," he promises, his voice raw, but, to his surprise, it actually makes the Hobbit chuckle quietly. "Just like I was stuck with you."

"Just my luck, I guess, you bothersome Dwarf," he murmurs, sniffing. "Wouldn't have it any other way, though."

"I love you, _Ûrzudel_."

It feels like a precious gift to be able to say the words, and it makes him immensely proud that the one he wants to say them to is Bilbo Baggins. With the feeling of relief for the first time over Thorin cannot even say how long – he doesn't remember the time he was at peace, with himself and with the world around him – he lays his head beside Bilbo's on the edge of the pillow, his arm lying protectively across the upper part of Bilbo's chest, his thumb drawing a soothing caress on Bilbo's gown-clad shoulder. He drifts off to sleep when the Hobbit's breathing becomes quiet and regular again, finally eased and reassured.

He is brought back all too soon, though – or so it seems anyway because it feels like he could sleep for an age now, with the dragon dead and armies of orcs and goblins defeated and Bilbo alive and safe sleeping in his arms. There are heavy footsteps approaching the door of the room from the outside, an echo resonating through the empty corridors. As they grow louder, there are two voices to accompany them as well, one of which Thorin recognises immediately, having spent beside Dwalin his entire life. Still sleepy, he cannot place the other immediately until the moment he hears an exasperated _'Bugger it, Dwalin!'_. He wouldn't confuse that curse being uttered the way it is with anyone else's – his cousin from the Iron Hills has apparently decided that if the mountain doesn't come to him, he will have to come to the mountain. Drowsily, Thorin wonders what time it is – must be way past their arranged meeting at noon for Dáin to finally grow fed up and come seeking him at Bilbo's sickbed.

"Dáin, he hasn't slept properly in days, give him a break, for Mahal's sake, he surely deserves one after everything he's been through." That's Dwalin's voice, and he sounds on the verge of exasperation. "Besides, Óin will surely kick up a fuss once he hears that you go barging in his patients' rooms."

"I'm ready to be the subject of that," Dáin states, making Thorin nearly roll his eyes but for the fact that they are still closed. The stubbornness of Dáin son of Náin has been notoriously known to everyone who has ever had to deal with him at least once, and Thorin is all too familiar with it. It is a family trait, Dáin would surely point out, but it doesn't mean Thorin has to like it all that much in others. "The matter of coronation has to be settled, and soon, too, so if I have to drag his devoted royal arse out of here to do it, I will. He's had half the afternoon off, guess he should be contented with that much."

With that, the door to the room is opened, though, to Thorin's relief, quietly enough, otherwise he would have to get up and kick his cousin's arse for disturbing Bilbo even before Óin got to him. As it is, Thorin does something utterly uncharacteristic of himself – he actually pretends to still be soundly asleep, something he hasn't done since he was but a mere Dwarfing barely reaching the height of his father's knee. He believes he has an excuse now, and a good one at that.

There are a few moments of silence and then a gruff yet quiet, "Durin wept, he _really_ is serious about the Halfling."

It is a statement, sounding a little annoyed, amused and somehow resigned.

"He _loves_ the Halfling, Dáin, and he nearly lost him. Leave him in peace for a while, for Maker's sake. It has waited long enough, it can surely wait for a few more hours."

An exasperated snort comes as an answer to Dwalin, which is followed by a heavy sigh and a mutter of unintelligible curse involving something about geldings and coronations and an idiot of a king, a peculiar mixture if Thorin wasn't the King in question, but he lets it slip. When the door is quietly shut behind the unwanted visitors once more, Thorin tightens his hold around Bilbo's sleeping frame and lets out a sigh of his own.

"Dwalin, you know this as well as I do, this cannot be put off for much longer," Dáin's voice comes from behind the closed door, muted but still distinguishable. "Whether he is in love or not, Durin's mighty balls, he has to be crowned. This is becoming ridiculous."

"Aye, he has to," Dwalin says and his normally gruff voice sounds almost gentle. "He is a King, I know it better than anyone, Dáin, and he will be King here, but give him a while. He is hard as steel, but under enough stress even steel can tire out and snap. He's been through a hell of a lot, all his life, ever since Erebor fell. He guided us along with Thráin and Thrór after Smaug, and he all but single-handedly saved us all after Azanulbizar, you should know it as well as I do, you were there, too, Dáin. He was the rock we all leaned on all those years; he led us back to the Mountain, he fought for it – I know it was your people that died for it, aye, but they wouldn't have been here without him in the first place – and now he has yet another ruined kingdom on his hands, hundreds dead, new alliances to be forged if we wish to survive, food to be brought to Erebor from Mahal knows where, and, yes, he has to be the King and the leader for everyone again, but he's not made of stone, cousin. If the Hobbit had died…"

Dwalin falls silent for a moment or two, and in that moment Thorin's heart squeezes painfully in his chest just as his hand squeezes ever so lightly on Bilbo's shoulder.

"You weren't here to see him during those weeks when he was gripped by dragon sickness. I had never seen Thorin as utterly alien as he was then; and then I've never seen him as utterly devastated as he has been ever since the battle, not after Erebor fell, not even after Azanulbizar. He's been walking the fine line this past week, Dáin, tittering on edge. The only thing which has been keeping him together isn't this damn Mountain, it's the fact that Bilbo's still breathing. He was the only one who seemed to be able to reach Thorin through his madness, and he's still the one who's actually holding him together, but _barely_ , can't you see it? He's not coming here to sleep, for Maker's sake, he's coming here because Bilbo still keeps him alive and sane. Give him a breather, Dáin. He's not a mountain, he's but a Dwarrow, one who's been deprived of much and sacrificed even more. I'm sure he'll be more cooperative now that he knows for sure that Bilbo will be alright. Let him rest."

"All of you seem to be inexplicably fond of this Bilbo Baggins," Dáin snorts, sounding bemused but as though he wished to understand. "Must be a rather remarkable fellow, all things considered, to turn that old grump's head."

"Aye, we are," Dwalin confirms, the fond intonation in his voice impossible to miss. "And Bilbo is, indeed. Good for Thorin, too."

"What's he planning to do with the Halfling?" The sigh Dáin lets out as he asks it sounds wearily reconciled.

"Marry him, I s'ppose," Dwalin huffs. "What else?"

"Thought so. Never half measures, that one," Dáin grunts in a fondly irritated manner. "Well, let's get back to work while some get their beauty sleep, shall we?"

_Bloody ogre_ , Thorin thinks but he cannot help a small smile, grateful to Dwalin for his understanding and support, somehow fondly exasperated with his other cousin, and relieved more than he expected he would be by their acceptance. There is still the matter of Bilbo's recovery ahead, and no one can guarantee him that his Hobbit will even be willing to stay here in Erebor, let alone entertain any thought of marrying him, but the fact of others knowing about it and not being either surprised or averse is already something. Thorin could certainly work from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ûrzudel - sun of all suns, according to various sources of Khuzdul knowledge.


	25. Chapter 25

**~ Thorin ~**

It takes time yet slowly but surely Bilbo's condition grows better and better. Óin still refuses to let him stand for long let alone walk around, but at least sitting stops requiring too much effort and doesn't make grimaces of pain appear on Bilbo's still too pale and gaunt face. Thorin has to leave him for the most part of each day, of course, too wrapped up in rebuilding, redesigning, clearing the debris – which are the easiest parts, albeit physically exhausting – and holding meetings with the representatives of the Elves and Men – which seems to suck what remains of his strength right out of him. That isn't because he is averse to dealing with them, no, not anymore; he has to give them some credit, to Bard for slaying the dragon and thus pretty much granting Thorin his Mountain without as much as a single life lost on his side, and to Thranduil and his people for saving the lives of his nephew and Bilbo and for standing with the Dwarves in the battle. For that, he will be obliged to the two Kings until the end of his days and is, in fact, willing to cooperate with them and provide what help he can. The difficulty stems from the shame which is still too fresh and acute, shame for his behaviour, for going back on his word, for lingering within the walls of the Mountain for way too long when Men and Elves and Dwarves were dying to defend what peace they had.

There is still distrust in Bard's eyes whenever he casts a grim glance Thorin's way, and even though it irks Thorin as much as it would have before, he bites his tongue this time and endures those looks silently. Thranduil's attitude hasn't grown any more amiable, either, and Thorin doesn't expect it to – after all, he hasn't done anything to change it except for giving back his precious memory, those white gems of starlight Thranduil was so intent on getting. The Elvenking treats him with frozen politeness whenever they have to face each other, his demeanour plainly expressing everything he thinks of Thorin and his actions. He accepts that as well as he can, despite his wounded pride, because he also knows that he is the one who has brought it onto his head. Balin's constant presence by his side helps a great deal, as the old Dwarf has always been a proper diplomat, and so does Gandalf's counsel, the wizard choosing to linger in the Mountain and Dale for a while, which Thorin is also grateful for, but mainly it is the thought of Bilbo which placates his temper and gives him the vital energy to cope with everything to the best of his abilities. At whatever cost, he isn't going to ruin what his Hobbit has sacrificed so much for. The _'I'm terrified'_ hanging so loud and heavy in the thick darkness of the Mountain tunnels still rings in Thorin's ears all too loudly, and he is determined to do whatever is in his power to never give Bilbo a cause to say it again.

Each evening, when he drags himself to Bilbo's room and his welcoming arms, he dutifully answers numerous questions about what is going on in Erebor, about negotiations with its neighbours and the process of reconstruction and the state and amount of provision, the news of his people from Ered Luin and about their plans to take the journey to Erebor. He is desperate to convince Bilbo that the madness which possessed him before is now gone, that he can honour his word and be the King he has aspired to become all his life. If Bard or Thranduil never trust him fully again, well, he will have to bear with it as well as he can, but he is resolute to rebuild the trust in this one Hobbit.

So they spend hours talking about everything that is going on in Erebor, and this night is no different from the previous ones, with Thorin sitting on the cot, his armour finally off, the dirt and sweat of the day's work washed off him and his belly full of hot if a modest supper. Bilbo's head rests in his lap, and he is brushing his fingers through the Hobbit's silken hair as he tells him about the process of reconstruction of one of the main throne rooms. His other hand is holding Bilbo's, their fingers interlaced, the Hobbit's thumb running a light caress over the back of Thorin's, the motion soothing in its tenderness and regularity. He feels he could spend a week like this, doing nothing but talking to Bilbo and holding him in his arms, craving some respite from everything the way he has never craved it in his life. Perhaps that could be attributed to the fact that he never really had any sort of respite, not a single promise of it, before he met Bilbo, with his kind words, gentle manners and that inexplicably grounding domesticity about him.

What they haven't discussed yet, however, is the matter of their future, and Thorin finds himself reluctant – or maybe plain frightened – to raise the topic. He knows what he wants – come to think of it, his whole Company knows what he wants – and his wish is very simple: he wants Bilbo to stay here, in Erebor, by his side as the King's Consort, there really has never been much doubt about this particular desire of his, even before they reached the Mountain. Thorin didn't allow himself to dwell on the thought then, what with nothing, not even their survival, being anything of certainty back then, but it doesn't mean he didn't have the idea firmly planted in his mind through the final weeks of their journey. He still has it, now even more defined than before, but it will be up to Bilbo to decide what he wishes to do once he is recovered enough. For all Thorin knows, he might set off back to the Shire as soon as the worst of the winter is over, and in that case…

The prospect is devastating enough to make Thorin's insides ache with anxiety, so, cowardly once more, he puts any talk of the future plans off for later, giving himself some blissful ignorance where he can pretend Bilbo is going to be by his side till the end of his days. It is easy enough to do so when he has Bilbo's light weight in his lap, Bilbo's hand in his, and Bilbo's smile radiating warmth and affection directed at him. He needs some taste of happiness and peace desperately to sustain him further, and besides, Bilbo has had enough on his plate over the past weeks and hasn't properly convalesced yet to be pestered with more worries.

Thorin's bliss is proved to be short-lived tonight, though, when it is interrupted by a resolute knock on the door. It appears it isn't even a request for permission to enter but a mere formality, as the following moment the door is unceremoniously opened to reveal no one other but Dáin. Bilbo startles against him and before Thorin can open his mouth to ask what in Durin's name his cousin is doing here, of all places, the Hobbit rouses himself to a sitting position, too abruptly because it tears out a pained gasp which Bilbo isn't quite able to suppress. That much is already enough for Thorin to give Dáin a murderous glare, and the fact that he knows why the Dwarf is here only intensifies his indignation. Instinctively, he supports Bilbo with his arm around his back to take some strain off his sore spine and bruised ribs and aching muscles and then shoots Dáin, who is already strolling in as if it were his own chambers, another dirty look.

"What is this supposed to mean?" Thorin snaps, his hand curling around Bilbo's upper arm protectively as he presses the Hobbit against his side.

"Oh leave it off, cousin," Dáin huffs at him with a dismissive wave of his hand and then turns his attention to Bilbo. "Master Hobbit--"

"Just Bilbo, if you would," Bilbo interrupts him, sounding both a little startled and a little curious.

"Master Bilbo," Dáin corrects himself and actually courteously nods in greeting. "I'm terribly sorry to interrupt your rest, but I have an urgent matter to settle with this insufferable ass of a Dwarf sitting by your side."

"Wha--"

"Dáin," Thorin growls in warning. "It can wait--"

"What matter?" Bilbo asks at the same time, shifting his confused gaze from Dáin to Thorin.

"It has waited for far too long, Thorin, and if you allow it to wait for longer, you might have a problem on your hands which you can easily do without," Dáin grumbles, and then turns his attention to Bilbo once more, seemingly intent on communicating with the Hobbit instead. "As I have just said, I am awfully sorry to barge in on you like this while you are still recovering, but I am afraid, Master Bilbo, you are my last resort in this matter as you are said to be the most reasonable and pragmatic member of my idiot cousin's Company; and reason and pragmaticism are direly needed at the moment."

"Dáin, for gods' sake! This is ridiculous!" Thorin snaps but is surprised to feel Bilbo's hand squeezing on his knee, as if in warning, making his voice waver in the end.

He is not the only one to notice Bilbo's move as Dáin's eyes dart briefly to the same place and the look of sly glee lights up in his cousin's gaze. _The bastard_ , Thorin thinks almost in defeat, _what a bastard_. If he is going to raise the topic with Bilbo here, Thorin knows he is in for a sound telling off from both sides, and Dáin sure as the grass is green knows it, too. He wonders briefly if there might have been some meddling wizard to give Dáin the idea.

"It is ridiculous indeed, cousin, that the rightful heir of the Throne under the Mountain avoids his own coronation is if it was a curse!" Dáin points out, grumpily. "So here I am, disturbing the highly respected Master Baggins's rest because I was told he would be the only one to talk sense into your thick stupid head, and sense must be talked into it soon."

"What are the two of you even talking about?" Bilbo asks, confused, as Thorin and Dáin try to stare each other down.

"About the fact that the oaf of a king sitting by your side has been postponing his own coronation, for whatever reason," Dáin says, turning to Bilbo again, "so I could only hope that you, Master Baggins, will help me to screw his big shaggy head the right way."

"You haven't held the coronation yet?" Bilbo asks turning to Thorin, utterly incredulous.

Thorin lets out a long-suffering sigh, something he must have mastered to perfection due to having been doing it a lot as of late. "I didn't want to hold it while you were bed-ridden. I wanted you to be present," he mutters quietly, eyes pinned to Bilbo's hand still resting on is knee.

" _Me_? What does it have to do with me? I'm but a--"

" _Everything_ , Bilbo," Thorin interrupts him and shakes his head. "It's got everything to do with you. I won't allow it to take place while you're still healing."

"You see?" Dáin grunts before Bilbo has a chance to utter a word, which, Thorin suspects, will most certainly be not the most gracious one addressed to him, of course. "Your reputation of having enough common sense and sound judgement precedes you, Master Bilbo, so I must admit I cherish a certain hope you will be able to talk some sense into this great idiot, and that is precisely why I am here, loath as I am to disturb your convalescence."

"Dáin, that's--"

"Does it… is it… people must be wondering, aren't they?" Bilbo asks softly. "Why he…"

"Aye," Dáin confirms, shooting Thorin another irritated look. "They are. I personally would be willing to wait for as long as Thorin here deems necessary, and I'm sure none of the Company would voice any objections, but it was my people who answered the call of the King under the Mountain and came here ready and willing to give their lives for him, and so they did, and yet," he pauses to glare at Thorin once more, making the latter wince, because, yes, dammit, Dáin is right, "they haven't seen the King here so far."

"I've been out there all day, Dáin, working along with the rest of them shoulder to shoulder--"

"Thorin, they don't need a handy worksman who can toss rubble around and bark out orders, those I've got plenty of."

"They need a King, Thorin," Bilbo says softly, finishing Dáin's thought, and it all but scrapes against something inside of him. Then the Hobbit turns his head to give him a sideways glance, to his surprise looking gentle and almost compassionate. The hand resting on Thorin's knee gives it another firm squeeze. "They deserve that much."

"Your famed burglar truly has more sense than you, Your Majesty. Perhaps we should crown him instead of you," Dáin snorts, sounding so pleased Thorin wishes he could just reach out and throttle him. He would have to move away and desert Bilbo in that case, though, which is a definite no.

"If someone had told me that what they meant by _'burglar'_ when they hired me was _'save Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór our obstinate King under the Mountain from all possible kinds of trouble_ ', I'd have thought twice before signing that contract," Bilbo sighs and Dáin positively guffaws and Thorin knows he has lost this particular battle. "Lord Dáin, I assure you I will do my best to talk sense into him by…?" Bilbo trails off with a question left unfinished.

"Tomorrow morning," Dáin offers helpfully.

"You can't be serious--" Thorin begins, but is being ignored by both parties.

"By tomorrow morning, then," Bilbo sighs, and the intonation of weariness in it makes Thorin's heart ache and his face form into a scowl directed at Dáin.

Who nods and, to Thorin's surprise and to the obvious astonishment of Bilbo, too, if his quiet gasp can be any indication, lowers himself on one knee before the Hobbit, his iron foot softly clanking against the stone floor, his hand pressed to his chest and head bowed.

"I thank you for your help, Master Baggins," Dáin says, as courteous as he can be when he wishes to. "And even more so for saving this clod from all kinds of trouble. My people owe you a lot for it and for everything you have done to help us all be here now. Always at your service."

Thorin glares down at the scene incredulously, but he has to admit Dáin's courteousness towards Bilbo does placate him somewhat. He isn't all that fascinated with the idea of the Hobbit telling him off – which will certainly happen once the door is closed behind Dáin's arrogant arse – but he is leastwise glad to see that his cousin is aware of the importance of Bilbo's contribution to the entire venture.

"I… ah… and I am at yours, surely," Bilbo says, sounding baffled and uncertain, and Thorin gives his shoulder a squeeze of encouragement.

"Wonderful!" Dáin beams and flashes them both a smile. "Then I cannot occupy any of your time anymore and bid you both a good night and to you, Master Baggins, a fastest recovery. It was an honour to meet you at last, even if I had to barge my way in."

He looks and sounds genuine enough as he speaks to Bilbo, but when his gaze is shifted to Thorin, there is solemnity in it, and Thorin knows Dáin will be all over him the following morning, expecting his agreement in the matter of the blasted coronation.

Once the door is closed behind his insufferable cousin, Thorin is almost prepared for an annoyed tirade, but, surprisingly, it doesn't follow. Instead, more of Bilbo's weight is shifted to lean against his shoulder and a weary sigh reaches his ears, making Thorin forget all about his concern about being told-off. There is a grimace on Bilbo's face which speaks more clearly than any words could, and he is once again marvelled at how absolutely incredibly brave and stubborn and determined his Hobbit is. It must have taken all his strength and willpower to speak to Dáin the way he did, sitting straight and banishing the quiver from his voice all the while his ribs and back must have been killing him.

"Let me just…" Thorin murmurs against Bilbo's temple already sliding his arms under his back and knees to manoeuvre the Hobbit gingerly so that he would be lying on the bed the right way up, doing his best not to make any abrupt movements. He sees Bilbo's face contort briefly, but once his head rests on the pillow, there follows a sigh of relief, so Thorin allows himself one, too, as he pulls the blanket up to tuck it around Bilbo's shoulders. "Would you like me to go find Óin to give you something for the pain? Or one of the Elves, the Mountain seems to be teeming with them these days, I'm sure they'll have some Elvish concoction up their sleeves to dull it," he asks, brushing a stray strand of hair away from the Hobbit's forehead. 

Bilbo shakes his head lightly, eyes closed. "I'll be fine in a moment," he murmurs. Thorin gives him one, just staying there beside him, stroking his cheek with his thumb. "Why haven't you… I didn't even think of your coronation, I was certain you would…" Bilbo trails off, finally opening his eyes to give Thorin a genuinely confused glance. "You didn't wait for long the first time around, after all."

"I couldn't…" Thorin sighs, lowering his own gaze to Bilbo's collarbones. "Not while you were still unconscious."

"What does your coronation have to do with me, for goodness sake? I'd have woken up one of those days anyway--"

"No one knew if you were ever going to wake up, Bilbo," Thorin says quietly, his throat clenched and the fear of losing him still too new and raw. "I couldn't be—it has everything to do with you, I am here thanks to you; I thought it would only be fair and reasonable to wait until you were fine enough to be present at the ceremony at the very least."

"And if I had never woken up, like you say, what then?" the Hobbit asks, sounding weary and grave. "You'd still have to be the King."

Thorin almost flinches, lowering his head even more, and remains silent. He doesn't tell Bilbo that he wasn't sure he would be in his right mind to become the King if he died, driven insane by grief and guilt as well as by the absence of Bilbo's sobering presence to keep his sanity together. Doesn't tell him that he was contemplating abdicating from the Throne in that case. Doesn't tell him he was contemplating taking his own life, in one battle or another because, thankfully, confrontations come easily these days, there always is one in which to cast one's life away. He doesn't say any of that because it doesn't matter anymore, because here Bilbo is, alive and breathing and with his hand so gentle on Thorin's. The silence that is the answer to what the Hobbit has just asked is eloquent enough, and when Thorin finally lifts his eyes to meet Bilbo's, the emotion he sees there is so raw, a mixture of understanding, pity, compassion and tenderness, that he suspects Bilbo knows what he has chosen to leave unsaid anyway.

"Thorin, I'm fine now," he says softly, his thumb ghosting a weightless caress over the back of his hand. "I am here."

He can only nod, eyes locked on Bilbo's hand on his.

"I'll be present there if you wish me to."

"Bilbo, coronations take hours, what with all the formalities and speeches," Thorin sighs. "And you're barely able to sit straight for five minutes."

"Give me some credit, will you?" the Hobbit arches his eyebrow, unimpressed and unconvinced. "I'll just sit somewhere in the corner quietly for a while, long enough to see the crown being put onto your stubborn head and then drink myself into sleep in the name of the new King and his health and longevity."

"Bilbo, you…" Thorin shakes his head, not even knowing how to shape in words everything he wants Bilbo to know. "You deserve to be there beside me, cheered and honoured by all those Dwarves."

"And they deserve to have a King, and soon, no matter if I can stand there beside you or not," Bilbo points out, just as softly. "And you deserve to be one. Now will you just spare me the necessity to talk sense into you and simply agree to whatever date Dáin names for the coronation because I'm really just too tired for that?"

Thorin lowers his head taking a deep breath. There is no point in this conversation – he knew he lost this battle the moment Dáin burst into laughter here a while ago. Besides, he isn't in the mood to possibly worsen Bilbo's condition by arguing with him.

"Your wish is my command," he says quietly and leans down to Bilbo's forehead to press a placating kiss there. "I pledge myself to you, my heart, and will do as you bid."

"This sounds awfully off," Bilbo mutters with the softest of huffs, and Thorin is inclined to believe he hasn't really got the meaning of it yet, which is fine by him. He is going to make a formal proposal later anyway. This, at least, can wait until Bilbo has recovered properly, unlike the bloody coronation business and Dáin along with it.

"I don't believe it does," Thorin shakes his head lightly stroking Bilbo's smooth cheek with the pad of his thumb. "It sounds just about right."

Bilbo squints back at him, the look in his grey eyes is both bemused and curious, but if he has got the hang of what Thorin means he lets it go for the time being. Instead, his hand tightens on Thorin's as he whispers, "Stay with me?"

"I've been here every single night, Bilbo, you aren't getting rid of me that easily."

"I mean, here, in bed, with me." The smile he gives Thorin is small and a little nervous. "That is, if it doesn't compromise Your Majesty too much."

"Nothing I could possibly be doing with you could compromise me in any way," Thorin shakes his head as another little knot of worry in his chest seems to give up and loosen a little.

"Is it truly so? The King spending nights with, of all people, a Hobbit _and_ a burglar?"

"I do not think they have a say in where and with whom their King spends his nights. Besides, my valiant burglar's fame precedes him. And what is more, the King in question is so wretched that not only does he have no crown yet, as we have recently established, but also no private chambers," Thorin smiles at the tug at Bilbo's lips. "This is one of the few rooms that have been preserved in a more or less decent state, on this level anyway, so the King has nowhere to go to in case you decide to kick him out of here. Which is, of course, your right should you wish to do so."

"I have no such wish," Bilbo says as his fingers run over one of Thorin's braids, his knuckles brushing his cheek along the way.

"You're sure it won't be uncomfortable for you? This cot is barely big enough for you alone; I could just stay on the bedding on the floor like I've done so far."

"Do I have to exercise the right you have just given me and actually command you to get in?" This time Bilbo grins. "Or will you be gracious enough to just oblige?"

"The latter, _U_ _krad_ ," Thorin kisses the tip of Bilbo's nose, making him wrinkle it in that lovely manner of his.

Then, very carefully, he settles himself on the very edge of the cot, only taking off his heavy boots but keeping the rest of his clothing on, and allows Bilbo to snuggle against him, so that the Hobbit could rest his back against the front of his body and thus take some weight and tension off his sore muscles.

"You'll have to explain me the meaning of all that Khuzdul you seem to be so fond of spewing at me," Bilbo mutters drowsily after a while, finding Thorin's hand and linking their fingers together with heart-warming ease, letting them rest against his stomach. "Sometime."

"That and lots of other things, too," Thorin murmurs, wondering whether that means that Bilbo is intending to stay here with him for long enough to have the need of knowledge of his native tongue, which is, in fact, secret for outsiders. Bilbo isn't one, though, not anymore, not after everything he has done for Thorin and his people. "The one I used means _'Greatest heart',_ for you surely have one. Sleep now, my love."

**~ Bilbo ~**

Hobbits are a jolly folk, fond of feasting, dancing, singing and the general merrymaking which comes with celebrations, so back in the Shire parties are a common occurrence, whatever the cause, be it a birthday, a wedding or merely a nice crop of tomatoes. Some are big and some are modest, but the main thing about them is one and the same – the joyful, carefree spirit, evoked and nurtured by the dull clash of tankards of ale or beer, music, and the gentle tapping of bare feet against the wooden floors or nicely cut lawns, tinkling giggling of young ones, hearty laughter of more mature folk and more common than not tuneful joint singing of everyone. During his days in the Shire, Bilbo also witnessed a few more grandeur celebrations, at least what he then dubbed as grandeur, whenever a certain grey-bearded wizard was present to show off a few of his poppers and crackers to the gleeful delight of everyone around. All in all, Hobbit parties are loud and at the same time light-hearted, like the rain in the middle of May which sprinkles droplets of water on everything around and then departs as unexpectedly as it came, leaving everything in its stead revitalised and nourished.

Dwarven parties, as Bilbo has come to learn, although he has seen but a few over the past half a year, are more or less the same but amplified manifold. Where Hobbits are noisy, Dwarves seem to be boisterous; where Hobbits are energetic in dancing and singing, Dwarves are rowdy and seemingly tireless; where Hobbits' songs are sweet and cheerful and may be a little on the cheeky sides, the Dwarven lore is either epic and telling bloody tales of battles and victories or so bawdy that it is hardly suitable for a dinner table. Dwarves just seem to take something and boost it to the level of over-everything. One might need a while of getting used to it, but, as Bilbo has found, in time it simply grows on you, making you nod and tap and clap and occasionally sing along almost against your will.

As far as Dwarven ceremonies go, though, it seems that even with the baggage of knowledge he has acquired over the past months, Bilbo still somehow managed to underestimate them. It is true, he has been bed-ridden for the most past of recent weeks and hasn't really done much walking around to see how work has been going in terms of putting in order and restoring the Mountain, mainly having accounts of Thorin and the others to judge from, but nothing could have prepared him for the scale of the works, the speed of them, and the love of grandeur and magnificence Dwarves possess.

Most of the Lonely Mountain is nowhere near finished, of course, but the Throne Room where Bilbo is led to, with Óin and Balin accompanying him on both sides, takes his breath away quite literally so, leaving him staring up at the vaulted ceilings, carved columns soaring up into the darkness above, which the fires of numerous torches cannot dispel, covered with runes and banners of the royal colour of the Durins, deep blue interwoven with silver thread. He is, of all things, feeling completely dwarfed, pardon the pun, but that is perhaps to be expected in a Dwarven hall full of Dwarves, after all. This is what Thorin told him about so many times, and even though he was expressive and eloquent enough, the description can barely match the reality, and the hall itself is not even finished in terms of restoration yet, scaffolding still rising up high along some walls and around pillars.

Beside him, Bilbo hears Balin's quiet chuckle and feels a gentle squeeze of his hand on his forearm.

"Wait until there is the King to sit on that throne, laddie."

When Bilbo turns his head to look at him, the old Dwarf gives him a wink, looking almost sly, and, suddenly, it reminds Bilbo of how intent Thorin has been on his presence at the ceremony.

"I can't wait for it, truly," he smiles at the Dwarf by his side and receives another pat on his arm, an almost encouraging one, and wonders what in the world that might mean.

Somehow, his presence here seems to be of particular importance to Thorin and the rest of the Company, although Bilbo cannot quite fathom why that would be. Yes, he is a member of Thorin's Company and, yes, he did contribute to reclaiming Erebor in one way or another, but he is still no one but a stranger from a faraway land which few have heard about and fewer have seen. Besides, he is the one who actually stole the family heirloom from under the nose of its owner, and never mind that this heirloom nearly brought doom upon them all, he still did what he had no right to do whatsoever. Even so, Thorin wanted him here so much as to actually postpone the coronation for as long as possible to allow Bilbo enough time to recover so that he could be present, something which is utterly beyond his comprehension. He is glad to be here all the same – apart from seeing Thorin crowned at last, in his humble opinion, a good party is long overdue, and Bilbo is looking forward to it even if he ends up with sore everything by evening.

Despite his protests – quite feeble at that, it must be noted – he is the only person he sees around here who is seated. Bilbo tries to object that he could endure at least the beginning of the ceremony while still on his feet, that it would only be polite, but Óin has none of that, clamping his large hand on his shoulder for good measure, as if to keep him seated where he is, on a rather high – for Bilbo, anyway – stool right next to the pedestal on which Thorin's throne stands, with the healer and the rest of the Company crowding close by.

"Besides," Óin says cheerfully as he leans to Bilbo's ear. "This is not only my doctoring fancy, but the King's command as well. He didn’t want to hold the bloody ceremony until you were relatively well, so do be kind to sit pretty and don't give him more cause for concern, he's had enough of that over the past weeks." 

The old healer apparently tries to make his voice sound confidential, but what with his hearing problem, it still comes out way too loud for Bilbo's liking, although he would be hard pressed to say who he is trying to fool with discretion – he believes by now half the Mountain should know where the King in question has been spending his nights, and even though nothing indecent has happened behind the closed doors of his room – so far – apart from a few stolen kisses and quite a lot of snuggling, Bilbo doesn't feel particularly at ease with Óin barking such things for everyone within earshot to be able to hear it. Like it or not, though, it seems he will have to somehow get over the status of the royal paramour, ridiculous as it sounds, since Thorin appears to be very much intent on keeping Bilbo by his side and since Bilbo himself cannot quite conceive the thought of leaving the Mountain now or anytime soon. Had Thorin been slain in that battle, he would have been on his way out of here without looking back. He would be, too, if Thorin had never forgiven him for the Arkenstone business, or had not recovered from his madness as Bilbo is pretty sure his heart would not be able to bear it. But as things stand now, he doesn't quite see any sense in leaving, and if he has to become the King's lover, well… By Yavanna, if anyone in the Shire knew…

He is brought back to reality when the excited din created by numerous Dwarven voices speaking in hushed tones dies down abruptly. Simultaneously, Óin's hand squeezes lightly on his shoulder. Since they are all gathered beside the throne, Bilbo only has to raise his eyes to be able to see the entrance to the Throne Room and behold the sight which takes his breath away all over again, and by gods, the day has just begun and he has already been rendered speechless twice. _Whatever it will end up with,_ he reflects absently, all his attention now focused on the tall figure in the other end of the hall, walking steadily and confidently towards the throne belonging to him by right.

To Bilbo's mind, one thing Thorin has always looked is regal, no matter if he was towering over the mantlepiece in his little Hobbit-hole in the Shire surrounded by his mother's china and his father's furniture, or drenched to the bone with his curling hair hanging around his face and rainwater dripping down the tip of his nose and his beard, or half-wrapped in spider-web, or even, ridiculous as it was, emerging out of the wooden toilet in Bard's home in Laketown. There has always been the air of nobility about him, in the set of his head on his shoulders, in the regular features of his face – that fabled Durin legacy, Bilbo presumes – in the way he holds himself as he walks, erect and proud and assertive, filling the space around him with his very presence wherever he is, even in the vast caverns of Thranduil's magnificent halls in the Woodland Realm while being no more than a prisoner. One doesn't have to know Thorin is a King, one simply feels it intrinsically at the first glance at him.

Thorin also looked nothing short of a King back when he donned the royal garb the first time around, after they had learnt of Smaug's death. Dressed in golden armour which shone in the light of torches and candles, jewels on his breastplates and gauntlets aglitter, his inky hair combed and cascading down his broad shoulders, a Dwarven sword hanging from his hip in its jewel-encrusted scabbard, Thorin looked utterly magnificent, and at the same time utterly intimidating. Bilbo couldn't say he has ever been daunted by anyone as much as he was by Thorin at that moment, when he first saw him clad as a proper King under the Mountain. It wasn't his robes and armour, though, which awed and disheartened Bilbo but the feverish flush to his cheeks and the frantic glint in his eyes, somehow intensified by the dull shine of the massive crown on his brow. Thorin looked, of all things, almost akin to Smaug himself, just as splendiferous as he was terrifying, and that nearly broke Bilbo's heart for that was not the Thorin he had come to know and love.

The King Bilbo beholds now, however, has both nothing and everything to do with the one he saw wandering through the heaps of gold in the treasury never stopping to eat or sleep.

Thorin is just as magnificent to look at now as he was then, striding at a measured pace towards the throne, his steps sure, his head held high and his shoulders held back and relaxed. There is no gold whatsoever about his garb this time around, however, not a piece of it from what Bilbo can tell. Instead, he is dressed in layers and layers of mail and tunic, the former made of some silvery material, perhaps steel rather than mithril as it doesn't glitter all that brightly, and the latter died in a rich, deep blue, bringing out the colour of Thorin's eyes perfectly. He is not dressed as if he was going to war, Bilbo also notices, much less plate and armour involved this time, just a moderate amount of mail shirts and gauntlets and heavy boots with steel toes. There is dark fur, too, on the collar of his royal coat and his boots, as dark as Thorin's hair, and all in all he seems to be splendour incarnate swathed in blue and black and silver, and it becomes him much more than gold.

From Bilbo's vantage point, Thorin looks so handsome and regal and dignified that he literally feels his jaw hang a little, and there is absolutely nothing he can do to put it back in its place. He must be looking absurd, a gaunt and pale-faced Hobbit dressed in, albeit clean and decent, but obviously hastily made clothing which is apparently supposed to look like something Hobbits would wear but in fact seems to be something from a Dwarven wardrobe, adjusted for his height and build, with his own mithril shirt hidden under his tunic, all but gaping at the King walking towards him, but, for once in a lifetime, he thinks he can be excused. Because the King in question looks… he looks…

…he looks straight at Bilbo as he approaches the throne, his eyes unblinking. Thorin's face is solemn as he walks through the ranks of Dwarves gathered in the hall, but now that he is almost level with Bilbo, there is a smile on his face, a close-mouthed little thing very mild on his lips but ever so prominent in his blue eyes and the creases running from their corners, and it is directed straight at him and Bilbo knows it is intended solely for him in this entire hall full of other people. Thorin gives him a little polite nod, more of a lowering of his eyes than the motion of his head, really, but it is expressive and eloquent enough, and Bilbo immediately feels eyes on himself, so many eyes directed his way, most curious and surprised and yet some disconcertingly knowing. He holds Thorin's gaze for a while, then swallows and lowers his head as the King passes him by to ascend his throne, his heart hammering in his chest and the rush of blood loud in his hears and his throat dry and hands trembling, so he squeezes them together to hide the undignified jitters. He has to admit he is glad to be sitting, after all, otherwise he fears he might swoon.

It is strange how he has always known that Thorin is a King, has always seen him as such, so, surely, he should have had enough time to get used to the idea; he has seen Thorin in situations less than kingly, too, drenched, and beaten, and dirty, and not a little insane, to be rendered speechless by his kingliness now, and yet this is what he is, awed and astounded and so, so stupidly in love even though being more in love with Thorin didn't seem possible not five minutes ago. It is a weird feeling, to both covet his love and dread it at the same time, and for the first time over the past weeks Bilbo really wonders whether he might have been wrapped a bit too much into his own illusions. Yes, he does love Thorin, and yes, he risked his life to save him and he will do it again should a situation call for it, and yes, he knows Thorin loves him, too, but it seems a bit preposterous for a common Hobbit like him coming from a tiny distant land in the west to be getting his hopes high for someone like Thorin, someone splendid and magnificent and noble and so very much highborn.

Suddenly too absorbed in his own thoughts, turmoiled and disconcerting and all of them revolving around the glorious King on his high throne, Bilbo, ridiculously, misses most part of the ceremony, watching everything with eyes open wide and yet seeing little but Thorin himself, hearing Balin make a speech, hearing all present in the hall cheer, and he does cheer with them, feeling almost dazed as he sees Balin place a crown on Thorin's head. The one which sits on his brow this time is a much less massive, more elegant thing than the last one he wore, made of mithril judging by its silvery shine, with stones of blue and black nestled among the sharp angles the metal was wrought in. It doesn't look overbearing as the previous one did, but quite the opposite, accentuating Thorin's status but giving him lightness, its sharp angles somehow softened by the gentle waves of Thorin's hair falling around it.

He sees the King rise from his throne to make his own speech to his people, words of gratitude and welcome, plans for future splendour and wealth, promises to the Men of Dale and Esgaroth and the Elves of Greenwood to be allies. Thorin speaks calmly and confidently, and Bilbo believes him he will hold true to his oaths this time around. Thorin's voice washes over him, a quiet pleasant rumble reverberating through the high-vaulted hall as Bilbo listens to him but somehow all Thorin says is outshined by his very magnificence, up there on the elevated throne, dressed in his family colours, with a mithril crown on his head, surrounded by splendour and his loyal people.

He comes to his senses only when the said splendid King descends from his throne to stand before him, of all people, a smile on his lips and radiance in his eyes, mild and warm. When Bilbo makes a move to stand up – it wouldn't do to sit before Thorin while Thorin and everyone else around are actually standing, he was, after all, raised better than that – there is another squeeze of a firm hand on his shoulder, Óin keeping him seated where he is.

"And I would also like to remind everyone present that none of us would be here without a very special and very brave member of my Company," Thorin says, eyes still fixed on Bilbo, and for one long moment he feels the urge to look around in search of the person Thorin is speaking about only to realise with a deafening crash of his tumbling thoughts that that is him, Thorin is speaking of him in front of all these Dwarves. _What in Middle-Earth…?_ "One who was valiant to risk his life to save mine, one who alone fought giant spiders when the rest of us were caught and bound, one who by virtue of resourcefulness and sharp mind led us out of numerous plights, one whose heart was brave and honourable enough to let him descend to the lair of the dragon that had been sleeping on the treasure belonging to so many peoples for ages and whose eye was keen enough to notice that there was a breach in Smaug's armour, a piece of knowledge that was used to the advantage of all, one who was selfless and loyal enough to risk everything to avert an unnecessary war when no one else dared."

"Tho—Thorin," he mouths, virtually soundlessly, utterly dumbfounded now that the King reaches out to take both of Bilbo's hands in his. He doesn't even protest because he literally cannot, nor can he take his hands away from the large, warm ones of Thorin.

"It is thanks to you, Master Baggins, your extraordinary courage and your quick wit and your unyielding support that my kin and I are all here, safe and sound and in the home which belongs to us by right," Thorin goes on and the next moment does something which makes Bilbo suspect he might have gone out of his mind again, in a good sense, maybe, but still out of his mind – he lowers himself onto one knee before Bilbo until their eyes are on the same level and he can gape back at Thorin to his heart's content from the same height. "My people, my family and I are in great debt before you," he says evenly, and his voice is so very loud and clear in the hushed silence around them. "So I would have you know that you are always welcome in Erebor, as a guest of honour, as a hero, as a dear friend and member of my family. Wherever the roads and paths you travel might lead you, know that here in the Lonely Mountain you will always find refuge, rest, comfort and a company of most devoted friends."

"Thorin, you… you needn't have, really… This…" Bilbo all but sputters, quietly, unable to take his eyes away from Thorin's blue ones looking back at him with tenderness, love and devotion. He has got used to that look over the past weeks, but that was given to him in private, with just the two of them in one small chamber serving as his sick room, creating an illusion of normalcy, just a Dwarf and a Hobbit who have fallen in love with each other, and now there are hundreds of Dwarves he has never even seen in his life, Elves and Men, and a wizard all staring at the two of them.

"Oh, I _did_ need," Thorin says ever so softly, something which is apparently intended only for Bilbo's ears, and then, as he raises back up to his feet still keeping Bilbo's hands held firmly in his, more loudly, "I would like everyone present here to give Master Baggins the most deserved cheer!"

As Bilbo feels his eyes widen and his mouth trying to form syllables – all in vain – the silence around them indeed erupts into loud, resounding applause, roars of encouragement and occasional _'Hurray!'_ all the while Thorin stands before him, holding his gaze, his eyes gleaming and his mouth stretched into a toothy grin. All Bilbo can do in response is smile back faintly, the stretch of his lips all but coaxed out of him as he is unable to help it what with the warmth and mirth radiating from Thorin's eyes. Then he lowers his head and waves his hand feebly, simultaneously expressing his humble gratitude and making an attempt to stem off the resonating cheer.

It dies down after a while, but the brief moment of silence is suddenly broken by Bofur's jolly, "Aye, let's toast the King's and the Burglar's health at last!", and then the entire hall explodes into merry cries and shouts of agreement accompanied by stomping of many iron-laden boots and din of weapons hit against the stone floor.

Thorin is positively grinning at him now and there are light pats on Bilbo's shoulders from the rest of the Company, careful enough not to make him uncomfortable, and Bilbo laughs, too, along with the others.

It seems he could come to love Dwarven celebrations very fast indeed.

**~ Thorin ~**

Thorin finds him as he ascends the stairs to the segment of the main gate wall which was finished in the previous weeks, where the view opening from the battlements offers the sight of the vale stretching from the Lonely Mountain all the way to Dale, the vale which turned into a battlefield not a month ago.

It has been only partly cleared from the bodies of the fallen so far. They have done what they could with the Elves, Men and Dwarves who lost their lives out there, buried some and gave others to fire, but the numbers of orc and goblin filth that were slain are countless, and even though attempts here and there have been made to pile and burn their bodies, lots and lots are still there, frozen and powdered with the snow which has only been scarce. They will have to work harder on that – it will do them no good leaving the dead for the winter for the bodies to start to thaw and rot in the spring – but, Gods have mercy, they are still so awfully undermanned, even with the gracious help offered by the Men and the Elves. There is no choice, though, they will have to tighten their belts and deal with it, even if Thorin himself has to work shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest, hauling the dead filth to their last pyres. In some sense, it seems an easier task than being the King of the half-ruined kingdom of Erebor – after all, it is only manual labour, and manual labour can only be required for so long.

Thorin is out here merely for a breath of fresh air rather than for the view. He doesn't have to glance down at the battlefield to know what it looks like. Having seen more than one battle in his lifetime, Thorin knows the horrid stillness which comes after, the blood-soaked ground, the stench rising from the decaying bodies, the air of desperation no matter whether the war ended in defeat or victory. Thorin remembers his first battle, long ago when he was a young princeling still in his adolescence, too confident in his own strength and ability yet arrogantly ignorant of the fact that killing a living being, even if it was a foe, came at a price. It wasn't even much of a battle, just a clash with a pack of orcs quite a long way away from Erebor, more of a training for him and his peers, the first taste of real fight. They dealt with them without a problem, with no casualties on their side, just a few knocks, bruises and cuts here and there. He remembers the surge of thrill shooting through his body, the wild excitement of the fight, the surprising coldness and composure he felt slashing at the enemies, the feeling of the time slowing down to a crawl and thus allowing him to see and hear every little thing, every single move acutely, the exhilaration of the victory at the end of it. And then, hours later, he also remembers himself sneaking out of the camp at night, kneeling under a spruce with low hanging branches so that they could shield him from the eyes of the others, and vomiting violently, shaking like a leaf in the cool night breeze and trying to catch his breath, the dead, mangled, bodies of orcs, dirty and pathetic in death, refusing to disappear from before his mind's eye. He knew how many were slain by his hand – two, which he had been so proud of at first – but he wished he didn't. It wasn't pity or remorse which he felt, they were foul creatures deserving violent deaths for their horrid deeds, but it also let him understand that there was much less glory in fighting and killing things than it seemed from the outside.

Once he has reached the final step of the stairs, Thorin stops short in his tracks, not having expected to find here the only person he would wish to keep away from the grisly scene opening down below, and yet once more he seems to have come too late to change anything.

Bilbo isn't a warrior; he never was and hasn't become one over the past half a year or so. He is courageous, sometimes recklessly so, he is honourable, he is deeply devoted to his friends and is ready to fight and die for them, which he proved more times than Thorin wishes to count, but still, he isn't a warrior, a cold-blooded killer trained to take lives. For Mahal's sake, he isn't even a real burglar, he doesn't have to see what lies at the gates of Erebor now, he shouldn't see it. He knows Bilbo was in that battle, was in the very midst of it, in fact, he fought there, killed, and saw others slaughtered before his very eyes. That should be more than enough for him, without his having to look at the damn body-strewn battlefield again.

Thorin knows he has come too late indeed when Bilbo's shoulders start to twitch and his breathing becomes audible, erratic vocalised gasps resounding in the stillness of the night. It hurts him in more ways than he can explain, Bilbo's pain finding its way into his heart, making it clench in his own chest and evoking a desperate desire to relieve it somehow, take him away from the gory scene, help him, protect him. He walks towards the bannister where Bilbo stands, limping only slightly now after the long day spent on his feet.

"Bilbo?" he murmurs once he is close enough to let his hand slide gently along the tense line of the Hobbit's shoulders.

He gives Thorin a brief glance of his wide-open, terrified, eyes – and, Maker have mercy, hasn't Thorin promised himself he will make sure there will never be this kind of terror in Bilbo's gaze again – eyes filled with tears which threaten to overflow any moment now, and, without saying a word, he buries his face against Thorin's chest, his erratic breaths and shaky sobs and trembling shoulders making the latter remember and relive the aftershock of his own first battle. He envelops Bilbo into an embrace as tight as he can dare, still wary of making the healing injuries the Hobbit has sustained worse.

"Shhhh," he whispers against the top of Bilbo's head, pressing kisses to his soft hair and rubbing his back – he is so awfully small, so frightfully fragile in his arms – in soothing motions.

"Thorin…"

"Shhh, it'll pass, my love," he murmurs. "I'm here, I'm with you, it's all over."

He lets Bilbo cling to him for as long as he needs, feeling his small fists clench at his ceremonial robes, and doesn't say anything else – there really is nothing to say for it now, and no point in trying to find the right words because there are none. Battles are an ugly business, and so is what is left in their wake on the battlefield.

"I never…" Bilbo mutters after a while, voice muffled against Thorin's shoulder, "never thought about what comes after. All those stories about heroes and warriors, they never tell of this."

"I'm sorry you had to witness it all," is all Thorin can muster, and by Mahal, he is.

Sorry Bilbo had to experience everything he did, be caught and prodded and manhandled by goblins, run from orcs, wield a sword against wargs and giant spiders, be injured and wounded, face a dragon all on his own, and then see the one person who had sworn to protect him go insane and… and there are so many _and's_ , and Thorin is sorry for all of them. His apologies mean nothing, however; apologies do not relieve pain or stick broken bones together or guard away nightmares full of fire and blood, nor do they bring back the dead. The only thing he could possibly do is just that – do something, take action, restore Erebor to its former glory so that all those sacrifices so many have made for him and his Mountain wouldn't have been in vain.

"Thorin, promise me that you will never go to war if there is a chance to avoid it, even if it is but a miniscule one," Bilbo suddenly says, voice quiet but fierce nonetheless, as if he has just read Thorin's thoughts about doing something rather than making useless apologies.

"Bilbo…"

"I know you're a King, and kings have to defend their kingdoms and protect their people, I know some wars are imminent, but if there is a chance _not_ to go to war, Thorin, promise me that you will do all that is in your power not to start it. All your petty grievances with Elves or Men aren't worth it, so promise me?"

He sounds so desperate, as if he were on the verge of a breakdown, that Thorin feels like screaming into the night, screaming out his frustration and shame because he can feel Bilbo's terror and sorrow as if they were his.

"I would gladly promise you that, Bilbo…" he murmurs instead, softly. "But we Dwarves are a passionate and proud people, as you must have had the chance to see for yourself, so I might need some help in that…"

"Help?" Bilbo echoes moving back a little, with a sniff and a frown of confusion on his brow.

"Yes, help," Thorin confirms as his hands softly brush over the Hobbit's wet cheeks and temples and slide down to his shoulders. He was intending to put this conversation off for a while, indeed, but the moment seems all to suitable not to make use of it, so he goes on. "Help of someone whose mind and reason aren't clouded with their passions or pride; help of someone who knows how to treasure peace and home; help of someone who is kind and merciful enough to know that wars aren't worth it when they can be avoided. Your help, Bilbo," he whispers as he lowers himself gently onto one knee before his brave little Hobbit for the second time during the day, hands closing in on his smaller and softer ones. "I need the help of my Beloved to guide me through all this and help me keep my mind intact and be honourable and just and brave and merciful like you."

"Thorin…" Bilbo mutters, sounding taken aback, worried and amused all rolled in one when Thorin's lips end up pressed to his hands. "What—"

"Stay here with me, Bilbo," Thorin asks in an even voice and then opens his eyes just to see the Hobbit's brow furrow further in what looks like utter disbelief. This must have been quite a day for him and it is about to become even weirder in about a heartbeat. "Stay in Erebor. Be mine. Marry me."

"Thorin…" Bilbo babbles all the while he slides down to crouch beside him. "What in Yavanna's name do you think you're—"

"No, no, you…" Thorin huffs awkwardly, letting Bilbo slip right back into his arms, "you're supposed to let me go on with it—"

"Are you going insane again?" Bilbo inquires incredulously, his face acquiring a funny expression as if he was torn between shock and laughter, and Thorin just knows that now both of them look ridiculous, crouching in front of each other on the cold stone floor, the King under the Mountain in his ceremonial garb with a crown on his brow and his little gentlehobbit dressed in something obviously tailored according to his old garments and yet looking suspiciously Dwarven all the same.

"No, I'm trying to propose to you and you're ruining all my kingly efforts at being appropriate for once in a lifetime," Thorin replies with a mortified chuckle but he's not feeling all that humorous as of yet because Bilbo just keeps looking back at him as if Thorin has really just lost his mind once more. "Are you afraid of me?" he asks softly.

"Afraid?" Bilbo echoes frowning. When there is no reply coming from Thorin but a meaningful look, the Hobbit lets out a sigh and goes on, gently, "No, Thorin. Not anymore."

Thorin can't help a sharp intake of air, barely managing to restrain himself from flinching. After all, it isn't news to him; he saw it in Bilbo's eyes and heard it in his voice, the fear which used to unsettle him so much while he was afflicted by the dragon sickness.

"What is all this about?" Bilbo asks in a murmur.

"I know you love your own home dearly, the hills and gardens and apple trees and flowers, and the quiet life, and the peace, and the people," Thorin goes on, almost breathlessly, before the regret and shame take hold of him again. His heart is pounding against his ribcage so hard he is almost certain Bilbo can feel it, too. "I know it is selfish of me to ask you to stay here, away from the place you love, and I probably have no right to ask this of you after everything I've done to you, but—"

"Thorin, are you even se— goodness, you must be serious," Bilbo shakes his curly head as he kneels on the floor next to him. "What does my home have to do with any of it? That's not it at all."

"Then what is it?" Thorin asks softly, afraid that if he speaks a bit more loudly his voice will betray him for sure. It is already quivering too much for his liking.

When Bilbo only gives him a puzzled look, Thorin sighs and gives up on whatever intentions to be appropriate he might have entertained before. Instead, he settles himself on the floor, his ceremonial robes and polished armour and a crown still perched on his head, and pulls Bilbo to himself until the Hobbit sits on his outstretched leg instead of the cold stone, his arms wrapped around the his waist to ease the tension in his back as well as to gain some moral support for himself.

"Bilbo, tell me," he asks, looking up into Bilbo's eyes, so very large on his gaunt face and so very dark in the almost complete lack of lighting here, wondering if he will be reduced to begging should the Hobbit decline. Thorin doesn't put it past himself. "Please?"

"The Shire… it's a wonderful place, you know?" Bilbo obliges at last, his voice quiet and distant, and suddenly, Thorin remembers the lullaby he sang to him back in Laketown, just how tender and sweet it sounded on that night when both of them were pretty much convinced that there would be only tragedies and heartache ahead, with barely a feeble hope to lighten the oppressive premonition. Somehow, the present wistfulness in Bilbo's voice reminds Thorin of the same kind of it he heard as Bilbo sang to him. "With nicely cut lawns and large sprawling oaks and blooming flowers and young Hobbits prancing around after butterflies," he goes on with a little smile on his lips which doesn't really touch his eyes and thus fails to make his idyllic description sound quite as cheerful as it should be. "I used to think of it as home, I was indeed an utterly respectable Hobbit, and I used to think that it would bring me happiness if only I just continued to conform to the image of your typical well-off dweller of Hobbiton for long enough, and so I did, year after year… but it didn't quite work out, not really. I don't know why, whether it was because I was so different from the folk there, even from my own kin, or if I didn't pretend hard enough. I think that if Gandalf hadn't dragged me on this adventure with you, I'd have remained a very respectable but at the same time a rather miserable Hobbit until the end of my days. And what's worse, I didn't even realise I was miserable, you know? That I was lonely and desperately needing someone to share my life with before I met you all, before you and the others somehow, improbably, became a family to me, people who actually cared and worried and wanted to talk to me just because they liked me and not because they were obliged to do so by the norms of propriety and politeness. You asked me many times why I had followed you that morning you set out from the Shire, remember?"

"Aye, you told me you wanted to get away from the memories haunting you there," Thorin agrees. "Was it not so?"

"It was," Bilbo nods. "There was another reason, though. I woke up that morning to the quiet and empty rooms, nothing out of ordinary, really; they had been like that for a long while. My first thought was that I was immensely relived your gang had left me alone, but then it crashed down on me, the stillness and the silence and the emptiness. It used to be familiar to me, perfectly normal, until the moment my home was suddenly full of rambling, yelling and singing Dwarves. Bag End seemed utterly devoid of life on that morning, and I simply couldn't stand that ringing silence. I needed to get away from it, too, or I thought I might just start to howl, and what a scandal it would have made."

"Oh, Bilbo…" Thorin murmurs, recalling himself wondering why a Hobbit would be dwelling in such a rambling, spacious place all on his own and whether he had a family, and if so, where they were.

"I can't say when it was that my life got so pointless and lonesome, but I couldn't thank Gandalf enough for giving me this second chance. I don't really miss the Shire, Thorin. I do love trees and flowers and a nicely cut lawn as much as the next Hobbit, but the world is full of trees and flowers, and home is not where your lawn or your mother's china is, but where the heart is content and at peace and it never was like that in the Shire, not over the past couple of decades anyway. I didn't even remember I really had a heart before I met you, and once I realised I did I just went and lost it to you. You have my heart, Thorin, have it whole. It's not in the Shire, it's here with you no matter whether I leave or stay."

When Bilbo falls silent, Thorin realises he has been holding his breath over the most part of the Hobbit's little monologue, and now that he is done and looking down at him with his soft eyes shining in the moonlight, eyes full of love, something Thorin never really believed would come his way, he finds himself infuriatingly speechless.

"I love you, and I love the rest of the Company as if they were my real family. I don't want to leave if that's what worries you."

"Then what is the problem?" Thorin asks, his voice hoarse. By now, Bilbo has told him plenty of times about his love, the gentle and affectionate being that he is, never stingy with words of affection, but uttered this time, here, under the blanket of cold-gleaming starts on the battlements of Thorin's own home, in his arms, the confession takes his breath away all over again, but the reluctance in Bilbo's tone nags at him with inner anxiety. "You believe there is a problem with the marriage, don't you?"

"You're a King, Thorin, isn't that enough of a problem?" Bilbo asks mildly, as if he was talking to someone a bit soft in the head. "And not only am I a mere commoner, a stranger, but I'm also of a different race, not one which is famous for its strength or courage or great deeds. It's all well and good to be stealing kisses from you whilst trudging through the Misty Mountains or Mirkwood, but this is your kingdom, you are its rightful ruler, a hero, practically legend incarnate, I'm sure there are standards which the King under the Mountain needs to conform to. Aren't you expected to marry someone of noble blood, and produce heirs?"

Thorin sighs, but this time with some relief. If the problem is not in Bilbo wanting to go back to the Shire but rather in his doubts about the propriety of the whole thing, he believes he can deal with it.

"I've got heirs, Bilbo," he replies simply. "A whole two of them, safe and sound, thanks to you because you risked yourself to keep them alive. They were raised as princes even though they grew up amongst merchants, miners and all kinds of other rubble we used to be. Dís and I made sure they knew who they were and what was expected of them. I love them as my own sons, I'm sure they'll do quite fine stepping onto the throne when the time comes."

"Kíli's smitten with the Elf maid who saved him back in Laketown, as you must know by now. They'll never accept him as a King with her as his wife, nor their children should they have any, you surely are aware of this," Bilbo points out, reasonable as ever, and Thorin knows he is right no matter how little knowledge the Hobbit might have of the Dwarven culture.

He also cannot say he is particularly pleased with the affair Kíli has got himself into, and a few months ago he would have been furious with his youngest nephew, prohibiting him to entertain even the slightest thought of the Elf maid if he knew what was good for him. As it is, though, Kíli has never seemed to know what is, too dreamy and reckless and romantic to a fault. But the thing is, Balin was right – Thorin has changed, and Kíli being infatuated with that Elf of his doesn't really evoke fury in him anymore, especially not after Tauriel saved his sister-son more than once. Besides, who is he to forbid his nephew to fall in love with one from another race when it appears it might run in the family, just like madness.

"Fíli is the first in the line of succession, and he's a good king material if you ask me. He'll do fine," he tells Bilbo, knowing he is perhaps putting too much on his older nephew's shoulders, but he is also pretty certain that Fíli is truly a proper crown prince, who will make a good king when the time comes.

"Well, yes, but that still doesn't solve the problem of me not being a Dwarf in the first place," Bilbo says softly. "You're not one of the heirs to the throne, you are the reigning King."

With a small smile and a sigh, Thorin lets his fingertips trace the line of Bilbo's smooth jaw.

"You know, I never really believed I would ever fall in love, find my One and have a chance to be living a conventional family life with them. Before Smaug captured Erebor, I'd been way too young to contemplate any love affairs seriously, and afterwards I suddenly found myself in a situation when I had other pressing matters on my hands, so many of them and all of them dire. I had to protect what was left of my family and try to somehow provide for my people, and all of us were reduced to no more than beggars and vagabonds all of a sudden. Love and romance were the furthest things on my mind when I had mouths to feed and homes to build – somewhere, _anywhere_ really – and people to protect from all kinds of vile things. I was long reconciled with the possibility of never marrying anyone, and it didn't ever bother me because I had my duties and people to care about, my people, all of them depending on me. I think every single Dwarf relatively close to me knew my decision in this matter, no one really expected me to settle down. They knew that my people and thoughts of reclaiming Erebor were my constant companions in the stead of my One."

When he falls silent, he feels Bilbo's hand, so light on his forearm just above the edge of his gauntlet, giving it a firm squeeze.

"And then you happened," Thorin smirks and shakes his head. "With all your handkerchiefs, second breakfasts, trees and flowers and lawns and books, with the home you'd left for us, so utterly alien from what I had always known and yet still so… you're _good_ , Bilbo. You're kind and reasonable and level-headed and merciful and so many other things. Dwarves here, they will love you in their own time even if it doesn't happen right from the start, don't you worry about that. I did, and I was the most ornery and lonesome of them all."

"They might accept me as a person and a good friend of your Company, but marriage, Thorin, seriously?" Bilbo asks, still sounding unconvinced. "I would gladly stay in the Mountain and help you with whatever matters you need to deal with, and you and I, we could perhaps…"

"Could what? I could make you my royal lover or something of that sort, you mean?" Thorin can't help but scoff as Bilbo sighs softly beside him. "No, Bilbo, that's not how Dwarves treat the love of their life. I'm not going to sneak in dark corridors and behind closed doors in secrecy in my own home. You deserve better than that after everything you have done for me and my people." 

"Thorin, I am but a--"

"You are my _everything_ , Bilbo," Thorin interrupts him. And they say Dwarves are stubborn. "I need you in my life to make it meaningful, and to keep my mind together, to remind me that most wars aren't worth it. And well, perhaps to save my sorry royal arse a few more times as you seem to have mastered it to perfection."

This time, Bilbo actually chuckles and, thankfully, it sounds fond and a bit more light-hearted.

"What if they don't like me, after all? Dwarves of your Company have had a chance to get to know me, but the rest? A Halfling as a King's Consort is perhaps not what your people expect from you."

"They'll love you, if not immediately, then in their own time," Thorin says softly. "They already hold you in a great regard."

"You seem to be disconcertingly sure," Bilbo sighs.

"I am, because you are very much respectable and lovable. It seems hard not to fall prey to your Hobbit charms. Even the mad king didn't quite manage to resist you."

"The mad king nearly tossed me off the wall, Thorin, you might be giving my charms way too much credit," Bilbo smiles somewhat dryly.

When Thorin winces and tenses up – because what Bilbo has said is certainly true, and he knows why he is saying it now – it does prove a point that no one can really guarantee that everyone will be pleased with the King's choice of partner, and if they aren't… Bilbo has had a chance to witness the fierceness of his kind.

"I'm sorry. Thorin, I… It wasn't my intention to make you feel…" Bilbo murmurs as he moves back and there is his hand on Thorin's cheek, cool but gentle.

"No, you are right," Thorin almost grates through a throat which refuses to loosen at the memory he has desperately tried to banish from his mind, Bilbo's terrified eyes looking up at him, hurt and pleading, and his small hands clenched on his gauntlet clad forearms. "I did that—"

"Thorin, please--"

"--and that's not something I will ever look back on without horror and shame, but there is also the fact that it was you who kept my mind together in the end. I saw you, Bilbo, heard your voice even in my madness when I was wandering through the piles of gold on my own, while others were fighting my war for me. Heard your voice accusing me of not being the same, of having changed, and I couldn't bear it, not from you. You weren't around me at that moment, thankfully, but in a way, you still lingered there, along with the call of that cursed stone, in my head or in my heart or in my soul, and it was you who led me out of that golden dungeon and back to my people. They know now it is you who we have to thank for all of it, and trust me, my people can be grateful."

"So that's what it was all about at the ceremony?" Bilbo asks with a raise of one eyebrow. "All those grand words and loud cheers, you trying to appease them before you even made an official proposal?"

"Part of it," Thorin concedes, "but the question of marriage aside, you deserve all the praise and acknowledgement, my heart."

In response, Bilbo only shakes his head with a small, quite exasperated, smile. "You insufferable obstinate Dwarf."

"Forever at your service," Thorin smirks and then sighs, brushing Bilbo's cheek with his thumb to make the Hobbit raise his eyes to his again. "Look, you don't have to give me the answer right now. I've been butchering one tradition of my people after another in this matter. None of this is supposed to be happening the way I am doing it right now. You may take as long as you need to make up your mind—"

"I don't need any time to make up my mind _on my own_ , Thorin," Bilbo shakes his head stubbornly. "If it were only up to me and nothing else depended on whether I accept or not, we'd be wed tomorrow for all I care, with or without any traditions of your people or mine. But this is not just about me, is it? It's about your Mountain, and your people, and your kingdom and so many other things… If we are doing it, it's us both who should make the decision. We need to talk about this, together, there's too much which… which I don't even begin to understand. I don't know much about Dwarves and the way you live, your traditions and mentality. All I know about you came from what I heard around the campfire during the Quest for Erebor, and I think you will agree with me here that it is one thing to be travelling with you lot through all kinds of peril, and an utterly different one to be…" Bilbo suddenly falters as if he was talking of something so completely far-fetched he couldn't even utter it aloud.

"To be the King's Consort and rule the kingdom alongside him?" he offers softly.

"Precisely that, yes," Bilbo nods, eyes still avoiding Thorin's. "It's not that I don't want to be here – I do, Thorin. You're really all I have, leaving you and the rest, going back to the life I used to live before you appeared in it would be a slow and pointless suicide. I want to stay, it's just that I'm less than certain that I'll be any good at what you're asking of me."

"Marriage?" Thorin frowns.

"No, you fool," Bilbo huffs and actually rolls his eyes at him. "We Hobbits deal with marriage quite well, that much I can assure you of. I mean kingship. Politics. Ceremonies. All this grandeur and royal conduct. I have absolutely no knowledge of those, and I must have it to be married to you, of all people."

This time it is Thorin who has to lower his eyes in silent consent because, yes, even in this matter Bilbo seems to be way more sensible than him. Which is yet another reason why he needs this remarkable Hobbit by his side.

"Look, we will talk about it as much as you wish, alright?" he asks as he takes Bilbo's hand in his own, slipping his fingers through the Hobbit's in a motion which is becoming oh ever so casual. "Ask me whatever you feel like about Erebor, Dwarves, traditions, how things work, and I will in my turn try to tell you and show you everything as much as I can. Balin has helped raise more than one prince in his life, he will make sure you know all you need to know, too."

"Does Balin even know what kind of madness you are plotting here?" Bilbo smiles down at him, a little less dubious than he was in the beginning, but not very much so.

"Yes," Thorin confirms and he is glad to be able to do so in this case. It might convince this way too reasonable Hobbit of his a little more. "Balin knows about my intentions well enough; in fact, I think he had his suspicions even when I myself barely knew what was going on, and so did the rest of the Company. I more or less have the wizard's approval, if I managed to read into his riddled talk correctly. Dáin knows, too, and I believe this was why in the end he went to _you_ to talk about the coronation business. None of them have so far expressed their objections, if that relieves your worry at least a little."

"Gandalf knows?" Bilbo asks, incredulous.

"You forget he had to deal with me while you were unconscious, it would have been hard not to see what was going on. But I suppose he must have known for a long while before that. Gandalf seems to know a lot of things which are none of his concern, after all," Thorin adds, not particularly pleased with that ability of the wizard but knowing he has no power to change any of that. Gandalf knows what he knows and comes and interferes into people's business when he deems it suitable. "Stay here, Bilbo; stay with me and the others, see everything for yourself, help me rebuild Erebor back to its former glory, and while we are at it, others will come to know you better and, I'm sure of it, love you the way we do. The problem will solve itself. How does that sound?"

"Fair enough, I suppose," Bilbo sighs after a short hesitation, and then he smiles down at Thorin, a fragile and gentle thing but there is a flicker of hope in it now, even though the doubt still persists. For the time being Thorin is willing to accept it – let it be there now and get slowly dissipated as Bilbo grows used to the life in the Mountain.

"The only thing," he says, unable to help a smile in return, "since we have started talking about traditions of my people, there is one I feel you absolutely must know about."

"Which is?" Bilbo asks curiously.

"You are aware, I suppose, that we Dwarves give special significance to the matter of hair," Thorin begins carefully and once he receives a hum of confirmation, he goes on. "There are different braid patterns and hairdos for various kinds of events in the life of a Dwarf, some are a symbol of status, some tell of deeds in wars, some are of family origin."

"I think I see where you're leading with this," Bilbo murmurs softly, his hand, apparently unbeknownst to himself, ending up rubbing gently one of Thorin's own braids. It makes him smile at the careful tug, Bilbo's hands in his hair never failing to be an exciting, almost exotic, novelty to him.

"When a proposal is made, very often by a Dwarrowdam because they are so much fewer in numbers that they truly are spoilt for choice you might say, and before the answer is received, the one proposing has a right to braid a betrothal plait into their Beloved's hair. That is not an obligation but is normally done out of mere desire to demonstrate that one has been claimed and is proud of it, if that is indeed the case. Then, when and if, the proposal is accepted, both wear betrothal braids of the same style until the marriage ceremony, when those are substituted with braids of another significance."

"That sounds a bit complicated, but I believe I shouldn't really be surprised anymore," Bilbo muses, his fingers still twirling with Thorin's hair. "So this is what you are asking of me, to braid my hair because the proposal has been made?"

"Aye, if you are willing to wear them," Thorin agrees, a little anxiously.

"I am willing, Thorin," Bilbo smiles at him ever so mildly. "And I will be proud to, prouder than I could possibly express. But I would also like you to make them subtle enough. Does that work for you?"

"Why?" Thorin frowns at him, not quite catching the connection between being proud and yet still wanting to conceal the matter of proposal.

"Because I don't wish to cause any trouble for the time being."

"You believe the King under the Mountain's proposal to his One calls for trouble?"

"Yes, I do," Bilbo says bluntly. "When the One in question is a commoner and a Hobbit and a stranger, of all people. The last thing I want is for you to take it as an offence, but I'd rather stay on the safe side and not risk provoking anyone for the time being. Can we call it an agreement?"

"Fine," Thorin huffs, not particularly pleased with such turn of events but seeing Bilbo's point, too. And besides, the news that Bilbo is willing to stay in any case is encouraging enough in itself for him to prevent him from arguing about anything. A few hours ago, he wasn't certain even of that much. "Just let me make my claim now, my heart."

They have to stand for this, so that the light of the moon could allow Thorin to see what he is doing. It is a rather simple braid, and not a long one, either, since Bilbo's hair, even though having grown over the past half a year or so, is still barely reaching his shoulders. All the same, he takes his time, not so much in order to accomplish it properly – his hands are perfectly familiar with braiding hair – but rather to relish every moment of the process, the sensation of Bilbo's silken tresses against his fingers, the way how slippery they are as he weaves them together, a lightest of caresses on his rough skin, and the way Bilbo seems to hold his breath, his eyes keenly watching his every move. Strange as their courting seems to have been developing, failing to conform to pretty much any conventional standards, this moment here is still almost magical; with Thorin dressed into the most luxurious of clothing a Dwarf may wish for, his crown still on his brow, his full royal attire on, finally the King he has been supposed and aspired to become for nigh on two centuries; with Bilbo looking at him from beneath his fair eyelashes, the golden ornaments woven into his vest and the mithril shirt visible through the deep collar of his tunic giving off a soft glimmer in the moonlight. Bilbo's dark eyes twinkle, too, as he shifts his gaze following Thorin's hands, and the barely present, delicate smile on his lips, no more than a tug at the corners of his mouth, tells Thorin all he needs to know. 

"You said that my people's traditions are complicated," Thorin says quietly as he braids those honey-coloured strands. "What are the traditions of your people when it comes to marriage?"

"Oh, well…" Bilbo shrugs lightly. "We are a simple folk, without any riches in possession, and since we value food and merry times pretty much more than anything, courting comes down to attending quite a lot of parties with lots of food and drink involved, on both sides."

"I should have guessed that much," Thorin smirks. "I'll take notion of that."

"I wouldn't think to dissuade you from it," Bilbo laughs. "And as to engagement, I guess the alternative of your braids is a token from the proposing side, normally some sort of decorative thing, a simple ring or a bracelet or a pendant, nothing too luxurious, so that it could be worn on a daily basis, just like your braids, for everyone to see. I remember Hamfast Gamgee, my gardener, courting his wife, Bell, some ten years ago. He gifted her a sort of headband to hold back her curls, a rather simple but practical thing made of willow twigs and decorated with dried summer blossoms. You might think it a poor gift but it was a lovely one for a Hobbit lass, and when I left the Shire last spring, Bell still tended to wear it on a daily basis even though they have been married for a decade."

There is a barely perceptible wistful note in Bilbo's voice as he tells of his gardener, of all people, and it tugs at Thorin's heart, too.

"You miss them, don't you?" he asks, nearly done with the second braid, which now runs very unobtrusively behind Bilbo's ear and is pretty much hidden from sight amongst his fair curls.

"Some people? Yes, of course," the Hobbit agrees with a shrug. "But I'll miss you and the rest of your merry Company terribly should I leave. Hamfast has his love and life in the Shire, whereas mine has been destined to sit on the Throne under the Mountain, whatever I have possibly done to deserved that," he huffs, and Thorin cannot help leaning in and pecking Bilbo on the tip of his nose, as if in apology for his unfortunate fate of falling in love with, of all people, a Dwarven King. "I could always write to them, I suppose. No, come to think of it, I will have to write anyway; Bag End needs to be sorted out, after all, I cannot just leave my property and vanish out of the scene for the Sackville-Bagginses to lay their sticky paws on it."

"We could arrange a trip there, once the winter is over and the roads between the east and west become less dangerous with more merchants and travellers between Erebor and the Blue Mountains. Much as my Dwarven heart would wish to, I know I cannot just keep you locked inside the Mountain to adore and cherish you as if you were a precious jewel. I know you won't appreciate that, my sunshine-loving flower."

" _Sunshine-loving flower_? Oh well, I've been called worse, I suppose. Good to know there is understanding between us on that topic, as well," Bilbo smiles, a bit wryly, but the smile grows fonder and more genuine once Thorin fixes the second braid with a clasp of his own. "So this is it?"

"Aye," Thorin confirms, relocating both of his hands onto Bilbo's shoulders and stroking them lightly. "If you ever decide to accept, you can braid mine, too."

"I'd love to braid yours anyway, but I guess that would sort of go against the tradition. From what I understand, I have been treating your hair utterly inappropriately as it is."

There is a light in Bilbo's eyes, a sort of mirth which speaks of very little regret at his actions, though.

"I wouldn't ask you to stop that, at least not as long as we are in private," Thorin looks back at him meaningfully, expecting Bilbo to understand the connotation.

Judging by the smirk which is returned in response, Bilbo does. Then he opens his mouth to say something, but at that very moment, all of a sudden, the stillness of the night around them explodes into loud cheers, laughter, and jokes shouted in Khuzdul, which Thorin is unspeakably glad Bilbo cannot understand yet. The Hobbit gives a start, and Thorin pulls him close into a protective hug immediately, keeping him there against his chest until a couple of moments later, when both realise who the intruders are.

"Gods damn you all," he growls low into the night behind Bilbo's back, his breath heavy and heart hammering in his chest, but when the initial shock passes, he cannot help a rueful smile which he hides against Bilbo's hair.

"So much for the subtlety," the Hobbit mutters dryly, his hair tickling Thorin's nose and lips as he shakes his head while his hands slowly release their grip on Thorin's sides.

"This is what I need you for, too," Thorin murmurs. "To be the voice of reason that reminds me why I haven't strangled any of those dimwits yet."

"Because they're family?" Bilbo asks with a resigned sigh.

"Because they're family," Thorin agrees softly. 

When he turns around, one arm still protectively wrapped over Bilbo's shoulders, there are all other twelve members of their Company standing behind them at the upper landing of the stairs, all grinning as one and still clapping and whooping and shaking their fists in a victorious manner.

"What in the blessed name of Mahal are you all doing there?" Thorin inquires. "This is supposed to be private."

"You weren't all that private on the road!" Glóin roars and is supported by another bark of laughter, and Thorin cannot help glowering at the red-headed Dwarrow, torn between irritation and amusement.

"Besides, Your Majesty," Dwalin adds, purposefully politely, "you were the one who ordered me to make sure your One stays safe, so there I was, executing your command while Master Baggins was taking a little stroll up to the battlements. Wasn't my fault if I brought a friend or three with me."

"You… _what_?" Bilbo asks and turns to gape at Thorin, seemingly confused and irked in equal measures. Thorin really wishes he could clobber the warrior on his stupid bald head right now.

"I'll explain later," he sighs.

"When's the date?" Bofur pipes in.

"Wha—there's no date yet!" Bilbo sputters, looking simultaneously indignant and on the verge of breaking into a reluctant laugh all the same.

"Oh, what's there to wait for?!" Kíli, whose arm is still in a sling, inquires plaintively. "I was hoping for quite a party!"

"We're not here to party!" Thorin growls at his dishevelled nephew, who, in his opinion, is growing more and more akin to a damn Elf, tall, slim and almost completely beardless, with that shiny look of infatuation in his eyes. "We're here to--"

"Oh come on, kiss him already, you oaf!" Dwalin cackles. "Proposal isn't complete without a proper kiss to seal it with!"

This is supported by a unanimous cheer, even from Balin, Fíli and Kíli, the traitors, and Thorin winces at the racket they are creating. So much for the subtlety, indeed. Then, helplessly, he half-turns to Bilbo to assess his reaction to the whole scene. The Hobbit catches his eye, looking amused and a little aghast at the same time, the mixture of emotions so oddly heart-warming that Thorin is compelled to oblige to the general demand. There is no resistance from Bilbo when he slowly turns to face him, hands lifting to cup his cheeks, fingers brushing briefly against the two thin braids neatly tucked away behind his ears, one of the most satisfying things he has ever experienced in his life, and who could have thought?

"May I?" he murmurs.

Bilbo remains silent, but the smile which is directed at and meant solely for him says it all. So Thorin leans in, his lips catching Bilbo's in a gentle, chaste kiss, and the night around them explodes into a victorious roar of approval once more.

There is more than one kiss, as it happens, and while the two of them are at it, unable to get enough of each other, the shuffling and the quietening laughter tells them of the others' departure from the wall, their jokes and harrumphs still ringing in the air even when there is no one but him and Bilbo still standing there, wrapped into each other's arms. It takes a while before they part again, more breathless and flushed than before. Bilbo immediately buries his face against Thorin's chest, muffling a quiet and rather plaintively sounding groan, which doesn't fail to resonate in Thorin's nether regions with those fluttering and slithering sensations. 

"And what are the traditions of your people concerning certain activities before marriage?" the Hobbit asks, still short of breath, both taking Thorin a little aback and making the kindling yearning in his belly flare brighter in the blink of an eye. "Or will you keep me at an arm's length until it's all official?"

"I can't recall a time when I was able to keep you at an arm's length over the past few months," Thorin says into Bilbo's hair, his voice hoarse with the sudden surge of desire. "As to your first question, consummation of marriage is supposed to take place shortly after the wedding, not before it, as is custom in many lands and for many peoples; but lovers have always been a sneaky and resourceful folk, if you get my meaning."

"I hope I have managed to prove to you that I am indeed very sneaky and resourceful," Bilbo murmurs, his hands clenching on Thorin's hips, and the latter curses the chain-mail he is wearing as it dulls the sensation significantly. "Thorin?"

All of a sudden, Bilbo's voice sounds way lower than his normal pitch, breathy and unsteady, the question hanging heavily in the stillness of the night between them. Thorin cannot help a shuddering breath of his own, the unexpected initiative on Bilbo's part – and not for the first time, either – almost titillating. At the back of his mind, he wonders whether all Hobbits are like his one, or if it is singularly Bilbo Baggins who is full of surprises.

"Bilbo, my heart," he says with a sigh and moves back to be able to look at his Hobbit, the movement seeming physically arduous because all Thorin wants is go on, wrap that wondrous little creature into his arms, take him to his newly restored royal chambers, and make love to him there, long and thorough until both of them are utterly spent and breathless and unable to move a single limb of their bodies.

Bilbo looks up at him with puzzled eyes, a little frown on his brow. "Don't you…? Surely you aren't decrepit enough even at one hundred and ninety-five."

"I do," Thorin assures him with a smile he cannot help, then lifts up his hands to rest one against Bilbo's cheek and to rub at one of his braids with the other. "Have desired you for months, but I want you to fully recover first, _Khajimel_. "

"I'm fine, Thorin," Bilbo huffs a little uncertainly, a somewhat offended expression in his eyes. "Well, not perfectly fine but I believe I could handle—oh, bother it, now this is all awkward."

As Bilbo shakes his head ruefully and lowers down his eyes in obvious embarrassment, Thorin leans in to bring their foreheads together, his hand slipping from Bilbo's cheek to the back of his head.

"Óin will geld me if I botch your recovery in any way," he whispers, aiming at diluting the tension a little but the shudder in his voice negates his half-arsed attempt at sounding reasonable and patient.

Because, by Mahal's mighty balls, he has never been reasonable or patient enough; has never been this much infatuated in his long life; hasn't been properly intimate with anyone for what feels like ages save for that fumbling messy encounter with Bilbo on the eve of their entering the Mountain, which was by no means enough; and the past weeks of being with the object of his passions and desires, holding him in his arms, kissing his mouth and not being able to go on with it, indeed partly for the fear of hurting Bilbo with an uncareful touch and partly for the fear of Bilbo being afraid of or repulsed by him after his wretched first spell as a King under the Mountain, have been a slow torture, which left him clenching his jaws, pounding the stone walls of dark tunnels until his fists hurt and biting his lips bloody as he whacked himself off in an attempt to alleviate the accumulated tension somewhat.

"Óin's been to my sickroom just the other day, embarrassing the life out of me as if I was some green tween with his doctoral consultations concerning the anatomy and sexual zeal of Dwarves and leaving a whole assortment of various jars and bottles in my possession," Bilbo says wryly, a strained smile twisting his lips, and Thorin moves back to positively gape at him, utterly stupefied by this piece of news.

"He _what_?"

"So I dare to presume he's not planning to do any geldings in the foreseeable future," Bilbo goes on with a shrug, still looking and sounding a bit testy. "And also that I more or less have his leave to find out about that fabled sexual zeal of Dwarves for myself."

In response to that, all Thorin finds himself capable of doing is huff incredulously, speechless once more, his mouth opening and then closing as if he was some dumb fish stranded out on the shore.

"Suppose your Dwarven coronations might have some other implications utterly unknown to a simple Hobbit if there are such consultations given freely before it," Bilbo says, but now his voice is softened considerably, and there is a gentle hand ending up on Thorin's forearm. "Not that I have anything against it."

"I think I might geld Óin myself," Thorin mutters at last.

"I do not believe it would be wise, you short-tempered, stubborn Dwarf," Bilbo shakes his head with a smile. "I believe a wise thing would be to heed his advice and put whatever is in those jars to good use. He is a healer, after all, he should know what's best for a patient."

The mischievous glint in Bilbo's eyes as he raises an eyebrow at Thorin makes the fire in his belly flare back to life with renewed force. _Tonight, then_ , he thinks as he breathes out an unsteady exhale. _Finally_.

"Well, if it is indeed the case," he murmurs hoarsely and gently sweeps Bilbo off his tired feet and into his arms, making the Hobbit gasp in surprise. "I'll carry you to the royal chambers myself. _Now_."

There is some protesting from Bilbo as he does so, his typical fussing about propriety and subtlety, but it sounds rather half-hearted as it is interrupted by his laughter, and Thorin doesn't pay it any mind, his only purpose being to deposit this marvellous, wonderful, handsome Hobbit of his to his chambers.

**~ Bilbo ~**

Bilbo has never been in what was to become Thorin's royal chambers, what with them being under reconstruction over the past fortnight or so. Truth be told, he hasn't been able to venture out of his own small room to wander pretty much anywhere, either, what with Óin not being particularly generous about allowing him much exercise no matter how many times Bilbo told him he was actually feeling better and could, in fact, do with some walking and fresh air. It was only a few days before Thorin's coronation that he was permitted to be out and about for a while now and then with a promise enticed out of him that he would rest regularly. Bilbo gladly did promise that, fed up with that small room of his and everyone's fussing so much so he was willing to promise pretty much anything for a chance to be able to walk on his own once more. He did rest, though, because every single muscle in his body was and still seems to be sore and aching from time to time, although with numerous potions and ointments he has been fed and lathered with, it has been getting better by the hour.

He shouldn't even be that surprised about it, really – it is a miracle, and he has been told so by pretty much everyone, that he is still alive after what happened to him. That said, he cannot quite remember what exactly did happen even now. Thorin has been rather close-mouthed on the topic of his injury, disclosing only some general details about how Bilbo ran to save him, Azog tossing him off and throwing him against a stone wall and all that, but Bilbo hasn't pressed too hard to make him talk about it, not wishing to make Thorin relive it again as it obviously pained him. Óin has been willing to share more details, also rather general, but it did manage to give Bilbo an idea that quite a lot of bones in his body must have been broken by that collision, his head knocked pretty badly, too, and some other rather nasty things he didn't really wish to know himself. It leaves him immensely grateful to Gandalf and Thranduil, to whom he is intending to pay a visit and express his gratitude in person whenever he is allowed out of the Mountain, and then to Óin and his Elvish assistants for bringing him back to a functioning condition as fast as they have done.

Now, as he is walking beside Thorin through the tunnels and corridors which are clean and light – nothing like they were back when Bilbo wandered through them in darkness and solitude, frightened and dismayed – the weariness which settled upon him earlier seems to have subsided almost completely, instead being substituted with an odd but nonetheless pleasant state of heightened senses. He can distinguish Thorin's breathing, fast and loud; the coarse sensation of Thorin's palm against his own; the heat of his skin which makes his hand tingle, and the minute, almost absent, motion of his thumb alongside Bilbo's, which seems to send all those tingles right through the very core of him, making him warm and fuzzy on the inside. He can sense Thorin's smell, too, the scent of leather and metal and fur, and then some thick, oily but not unpleasant, aroma, perhaps from some tobacco leaves or essential oils Thorin's hair is rubbed with. There is a clink of armour and the rustle of mail and cloth, the cloth which is dyed royal blue and the armour which is adorned with the symbols of Thorin's heritage, Bilbo suddenly realises, and that brings him to an almost staggering realisation that he is indeed walking beside a Dwarven King, an utterly magnificent Dwarven King at that, to the said King's royal chambers, to make love to him.

The thought, albeit an exciting one, still seems utterly implausible, and Bilbo might think he is dreaming it all but for the firm grip of Thorin's hand on his keeping him connected with reality.

When they finally reach Thorin's newly restored chambers, Bilbo is taken aback to see an unfamiliar Dwarf standing guard there, and that is another little thing which makes another penny drop and remind him who Thorin really is now – not a mere warrior Dwarrow, a Lord from the Blue Mountains, a hero and a leader, but an actual King. Goodness gracious, he hasn't been wandering around the Mountain for a week yet, and it seems like he is already rendered speechless by everything and everyone he encounters, all the splendour, the solemn ceremonies, Dwarves and Dwarves and Dwarves again, the Mountain seeming to be full of them, which shouldn't come as a surprise at all – after all, he is in a Dwarven Kingdom – and yet it still does, and now _this_ , guards apparently following Thorin's every step because he is, in fact, a King. It seems Bilbo is going to have a hard time getting used to the thought, after all.

As Thorin greets the young looking, ginger-bearded Dwarrow with a curt nod of acknowledgement and unlocks the door to his room – _rooms? does a king have many rooms in his palace?_ – Bilbo remembers something Dwalin said back when they were all on top of the battlements, something about him keeping an eye on Bilbo by Thorin's order.

"Welcome to the royal chambers, _Âzyungûn_ ," Thorin says in a soft voice as he lets Bilbo in before himself, pride mixed with barely concealed anxiety audible in his tone.

_So much for the subtlety once more_ , Bilbo notes to self, musing that if Thorin is going to parade him around the Mountain like this, spitting out those Khuzdul words which he now knows to be endearments by how softly they are always spoken, for everyone to see and hear, every single Dwarf in Erebor will soon be aware of the King's intentions with regard to his burglar.

He is on the verge of asking Thorin what Dwalin meant back then, but he is silenced by his own curiosity. The chambers, to his surprise, do not look all that royal, at least not in the manner the Throne Room did. The room they have entered must be some sort of parlour, larger than his own one back at Bag End but not much, with a hearth and a rug on the floor, a simple sofa and a couple of chairs beside a low table, chandeliers on the walls which are plain stone and only in places adorned by dark blue tapestries. It is swept clean, though, warm and light enough, and there is a steady draught of fresh air coming from somewhere, surely some Dwarven engineering genius to keep the underground chambers aired and suitable for living. There are two doors, both closed, apparently leading to other rooms. All in all, the place looks like it has the potential to be cosy enough but is still way too barren, so he turns to Thorin, not sure if he should be impressed or surprised or something else entirely.

"It's barely furnished or decorated, as you can see," Thorin says, sounding almost… is that uncertainty? Awkwardness even?

"I have to admit, I did expect something of majestic proportions," Bilbo huffs, "but this is more to the tastes of a Hobbit, cosy enough."

"I…" Thorin trails off, now looking positively flustered. Now, this is something new. Bilbo lifts eyebrows at him to encourage the Dwarf to go on. "I didn't want to do much about the place without hearing what you had to say about the whole thing."

"The whole… _thing_? Oh," Bilbo breathes, realisation dawning upon him too fast and sudden. "You mean the…" he moves his head making the new braids sway behind his ears.

"Yes," Thorin nods. "The proposal. You said you cannot make up your mind about it on your own; I thought in the same lines when these rooms were restored – they are not strictly my own now; I wouldn't like them to be only my own. I would like you to have a say in what is going to be here, if you are willing to stay."

"I see you've been plotting things for a while," Bilbo chuckles, not knowing if he should feel irritated or pleased with this wayward Dwarf of his and his grand plans.

"Yes, I have. Since you woke up," Thorin says softly. "I couldn't… before."

Bilbo takes him in once more, still standing beside the door, in his kingly attire and with a crown perched on his head, looking oddly mild despite having to look severe. Come to think of it, he cannot quite recall when Thorin seemed truly severe last time.

"Is he going to…" Bilbo trails off, shifting his eyes to the closed door. "The guard I mean, is he going to remain there all through the night?"

"Yes," Thorin nods with a soft tug at his lips. "That is his duty. But the stone walls here are thick enough to be sound-proof, if that's what worries you."

"I guess it's too late for me to worry about anything," Bilbo mutters with a shake of his head. "I'm wearing those braids of yours and you're marching me around the Mountain for all to see, I'm starting to realise it must have been quite naïve of me to assume that we could keep this a secret. I keep forgetting I got myself into an affair with the actual King of this place."

"Does it worry you?"

"What? You being a king? Guards outside your bedroom? Dwalin keeping an eye on me because you ordered him to do it?" Bilbo asks, suddenly feeling confused and unsettled. He wishes he could help it, but it seems to be beyond him at the end of this long day which has been stuffed with all kinds of unexpected things

"I…" Thorin begins and then trails off once more, and Bilbo is suddenly aware of the amount of anxiety and concern in his Dwarf's blue eyes, what seems like for the first time in the past weeks being able to actually see how weary Thorin looks, wondering how he has failed to notice it before, the shadows under his eyes and the new wrinkles on his forehead. "What Dwalin said, it isn't what it must have sounded like, Bilbo. He's been my friend ever since we were but little tykes here in Erebor; he would have been in the royal guard had Erebor endured and he has been more or less doing that very job for my family for all those years after it fell. I wanted you protected, Bilbo, on the road as well as here in case I wasn't capable of doing it – and as far as you remember, here in Erebor I was far from it. Dwalin would be the first person I would ask such a service from, so that was what I did. I couldn't trust anyone more than I do him with the life of someone who became so precious to me."

There is a moment of silence as Bilbo tries to wrap his mind around this piece of information – he was aware the Dwarves tried to keep an eye on him, indeed, but that they were personally asked to do so by Thorin is some news.

"Are you angry with me for it?" Thorin's voice draws Bilbo's attention back to himself, and the sheer amount of anguish in it takes him aback, suddenly making him realise that his confusion caused by this whole royal business he has stepped into might look like something else entirely to Thorin, like reluctance or doubt or, worse, accusation.

"No, Thorin," he replies gently and pads back to him over the carpet covered floor until he is standing right in front of his Dwarf. "I'm not. It's just that… it all takes some time to get used to, the grandeur, the guards, somebody constantly watching over you, or me, you being the King here. It's all utterly unfamiliar to me and it's a little confusing."

In response to Bilbo's shrug, Thorin nods with a fleeting smile, still way too anxious for Bilbo's liking.

"I'm sorry I've brought it all on you in the course of one day."

"Thorin…"

"I was going to wait with the proposal at least," the Dwarf sighs. "But I got too worried you'll just… you know?"

"I'll just what?" Bilbo echoes, his hand ending up on Thorin's elbow. "Run back to the Shire under the cover of night as fast as my feet can carry me?" When there is silence as an answer, he sighs and takes one more step towards Thorin, finally ending up in his arms which wrap around him without hesitation. "I'm not running anywhere, Thorin. I've told you I am staying and I will. You'll just have to bear with me for a while and endure my gaping around because all of this is entirely new to me. You seem to be the only thing that I know around here, yet even you are changed. Back there in Mirkwood you said we were very much equal, but it's not Mirkwood anymore, and you're not mere travelling Dwarrow on a quest, you're a King, for goodness' sake. It's not quite like being alone with you in that small chamber of mine, away from everyone and everything that's been going on here."

"We are alone now, though," Thorin murmurs low, and Bilbo feels one of his hands relocating from his shoulder to run a slow caress all the way up Bilbo's neck until his fingers end up trifling with one of the proposal braids.

In response, Bilbo inclines his head to allow him more access to it, forehead still pressed against Thorin's firm chest. It makes him wonder which part of that firmness comes from the chainmail and his tunic and whatever else is donned on Thorin, and which is the sturdiness of his body. In its wake, the thought brings other ones about how Thorin's skin would feel like beneath the palm of his hand; whether it will be warm or hot to the touch; whether there is much hair covering Thorin's chest and if it is just as black as that on his head; and if there are any tattoos adorning his skin anywhere. Yes, they did have their little intimate moments before, but they have been few and far between, under the cover of night and with way too much clothing getting in the way for a proper exploration.

Here in Thorin's chambers, though, it is light enough, the room illuminated by the fire in the hearth and chandeliers on the walls, it is warm and comfortable and dry, and for once, there surely must be a proper bed tucked away somewhere, or so Bilbo dearly hopes – he cannot quite remember the last time he was actually sleeping in a normal bed with a normal pillow and a duvet to go with it.

"Where's the bedroom?" he asks, gripping the belt around Thorin's waist firmly. "Tell me there is a bed here, or I am indeed leaving for the Shire to haul my own right back. I've had enough of roots and stones and cots to last me a lifetime."

Thorin's deep, rumbling laughter seems to roll all over Bilbo, starting deep within that barrel chest of his and filling the whole room around them, and it is a sheer joy to hear.

"Oh let me show you something, Bilbo my love," he says with what sounds like pure relish and, suddenly, Bilbo finds himself hoisted off the floor in one smooth motion once again, Thorin's mighty forearms forming a nice little perch for his behind, and Bilbo clings to him, wrapping his arms around Thorin's neck and his legs around his hips for balance. "I took the liberty to choose the bed, I have to confess, so there's plenty of it for a Dwarf and a Hobbit to be comfortable on."

They proceed in this fashion to what must be the designated bedroom here, Bilbo not being able to help a laugh of his own as he holds on to his Dwarf, all too aware of how his crotch rubs against Thorin's front and of the firm hold of Thorin's hands on his butt. It makes him gasp and squirm a little closer in an attempt to turn the teasing touch into something a bit more substantial, something he has been dreaming of for months now, and, still sore and aching or not, he is going to get it.

There is indeed a bedroom here, and once they enter it, Bilbo is gently deposited onto a bed the size of which tears a surprised gasp out of him for it is indeed of royal proportions and certainly more than enough for a Dwarf and a Hobbit, whichever endeavour they choose to engage in on it. There is a white hide of what used to belong to something big and surely ferocious, the fur soft and supple beneath Bilbo's palms. There is a hearth, too, the only source of light here, the wall around it is made of carven stone, but this is as much as he is able to catch a glimpse of because the next moment he is distracted by Thorin's fingers combing through his hair.

The interior can wait, Bilbo decides as he collects himself to be able to kneel on the mattress, the height of the bed just perfect enough to leave his face on the same level as Thorin's.

"Oh, I'm going to savour every single moment of this," he murmurs as he leans into Thorin's arms, seeking another kiss he seems to be unable to get enough of. It is given to him willingly, a yet unhurried, soft press of supple lips with the scratchy prickle of the familiar beard never failing to send a tingle up Bilbo's spine. "I want to see you naked, Your Majesty."

"Shall I leave the crown for you then," Thorin grins into the kiss, "since you're so intent on reminding me that I'm indeed a king?"

"Oh, that's the last dratted thing I need on you," Bilbo huffs with disdain, and off that shiny piece of metal goes to land elsewhere on the bed. Instead, he buries his fingers into the voluminous mane of Thorin's hair, slick and heavy to the touch, and he is pleased to see the Dwarf's eyes slip shut as a long sigh leaves his mouth. Then, like a huge cat, Thorin actually rubs his head against Bilbo's palms, coaxing another grin out of him.

"You're most impertinent little creature I've encountered in my life," Thorin murmurs, his breath hot on Bilbo's face and his hands already busing themselves with undoing the buttons on Bilbo's vest.

"Thought I was kind and reasonable and polite, eh? And you the impertinent one," Bilbo grins and receives a slightly breathy huff in response.

"Aye, I might be confusing something, my jewel," Thorin concedes, shrugging off that royal coat of his and sparing Bilbo the trouble of having to fight the heavy thing off him. "Rather hard to stay focused when--" he trails off when Bilbo undoes the clasp of his silvery belt, the latter slipping down onto the floor to join the coat, where it lands with a clink of metal on stone like yet another piece of ice chipped off Thorin's heart.

"Off with these, too," Bilbo tugs at the mail shirt and the tunic underneath it, "I've had enough of mail on you. I've had enough of _clothes_ on you."

Thorin's eyes shoot open, dark and surprised if Bilbo's not mistaken, and he grins back at him, allowing his hands to teasingly rub between those offending layers of mail and tunic, stroking along that firm abdomen and upwards as far as his arms can reach. Oh but he could be doing this forever, Bilbo realises, watching and touching and teasing to his heart's content before they proceed further, and he only hopes Thorin has enough endurance in him to allow him this little treat. After all, he has to be rewarded for all those long months of looking with barely a few intimate moments stolen, all those clothes and armour and furs always getting in the way, for all those previous years devoid of intimacy.

"Your wish is my command, my sun," Thorin murmurs, his voice peculiarly hoarse, his gaze so heavily intense on Bilbo that it seems he is only barely holding onto remains of his patience.

Then, his movements slow as if what is left of his composure could be ruined by an abrupt motion – and Bilbo could relate to that, oh, couldn't he – Thorin takes off the mail shirt, which follows the coat and the belt on the floor, eases up the lacing on the front of his tunic and then pulls it off himself, leaving his hair in a light mess. Bilbo feels his breath hitch slightly, his eyes wide and hungry on the sight that is revealed, wanting to simultaneously behold the whole picture and every single detail of it so much so he doesn't even know _where_ to look. The fact of Thorin's stamina and fitness has never been a secret to him, of course – he is a Dwarf, and Dwarves are known to be sturdy and robust – but he is nonetheless unprepared to see a person so finely built. His own shuddering sigh of awe sounds weirdly remote to his own ears, and his hand seems to be moving by its own will as he reaches out to place slightly trembling fingers to Thorin's collarbone.

His skin is pale – and why wouldn't it be, Dwarves aren't known for their love of sunbathing under the open skies – and is a stark contrast to the pelt of black hair covering his chest. It is also hot to the touch, the heat literally radiating off it, making Bilbo's palm sweat. Experimentally, he lets it slide lower, from the place where Thorin's heartbeat pulses in the lower part of his throat down to that black hair, his fingers raking through it. It feels coarse to the touch, an utter novelty, an exciting one, and Bilbo watches his fingertips disappear into it, mesmerised. Thorin's chest moves right beneath his hand as he breathes, and Bilbo allows his hand to slip lower, fascinated, until his pinkie skips over a nipple, tearing an unsteady exhale out of Thorin's mouth.

Slowly, Bilbo tears his eyes off the utterly captivating sight of Thorin's chest and raises them to his face instead, and if looks could set people on fire, he surely would be, because there is fire in Thorin's gaze, uncurbed and radiating his whole face.

"Like what you see, Master Baggins?" he asks, his voice husky, but doesn't move a single limb yet.

Before answering, Bilbo gives him what must be an absolutely deranged faint smile. "You are…" he swallows with difficulty, his eyes darting between Thorin's and his own hand on the Dwarf's chest. "You are so infuriatingly beautiful, Thorin. I can hardly believe I am allowed to… _this_ ," he mutters, following the slow journey of his fingers with his eyes.

There is no answer from Thorin but another laborious intake of air as Bilbo moves his hand down. That thick coat of hair on his well-sculpted chest thins to a narrow trail running over the firm ridges of his stomach – as firm as that mail he was wearing but warmer, more alive than steel. There are scars on Thorin's skin, too, Bilbo notices as he lets his eyes roam shamelessly; a white barely noticeable one to his side, closer to his armpit, looking like a cut, another, thicker and darker on his shoulder – a whole row of them in fact and, Bilbo realises, those are teeth marks, perhaps coming from Azog's warg that tossed him back in that skirmish on the slopes of the Misty Mountains. There are many more on Thorin's forearms, puckered white tissue with the web of veins running beneath his skin here and there, and Bilbo draws his eyes away from them neither wishing nor ready to know where any of those marks came from.

Instead, he moves his gaze back to that trail of black hair, and as his fingertips follow it, Thorin's stomach heaves in a more pronounced manner under his touch. Bilbo only stops once his hand reaches the waistband of Thorin's pants right beneath his navel. The material feels thin and supple, and the cut of them is loose enough to make Thorin's desire perfectly obvious, the bulge beneath the fabric looking beautifully obscene. Bilbo's hand positively itches and sweats because it remembers the feel of it, the smoothest skin over the hardest flesh, the heat, the moisture, the prickle of hair, the shape fitting just so perfectly against his palm. He hears himself let out a softest of moans, his fingers hooking under the waistband almost spasmodically, but he doesn't dare touch Thorin just now. He doesn't know about the Dwarf, but he feels about to collapse from the sheer visual overload, and oh boy, they have barely started, whatever will he do when they move on?

"Bilbo," Thorin all but exhales, low and raspy, a plea and a prayer rolled in one, and before Bilbo is even able to lift his eyes there is scorching hot breath on his face and the coarse scratch of beard on his cheeks and chin and then lips on his, parted and relentless and wet, and his ensuing gasp is totally drowned out by Thorin's own groan as their tongues touch.

There are hands in his hair, fingers following the shape of his ears making him jerk, that maddeningly wet mouth sliding off his lips to his cheek and then to the side of his throat and leaving moisture behind it as thick fingers undo the buttons of his vest hurriedly yet with surprising deftness. It is done with in the matter of seconds, pulled off him relentlessly and discarded elsewhere; his shirt is tugged out of his pants and off it goes, too; and then there are hands, large and hot landing onto his butt with a possessive squeeze which makes Bilbo let out an utterly undignified squeak. They trail upwards, over Bilbo's hips and sides until they end up beneath his armpits, and the next moment he finds himself hoisted further up the bed and laid onto it, the hide beneath him slippery-smooth against the skin of his back. Thorin climbs right after him, his mouth not leaving Bilbo's throat even for a second as he sucks and nibbles at Bilbo's skin, towering over him, his weight held on his forearms, his hair wild around them like a curtain, the heat of his body washing over Bilbo almost disorienting.

And that mouth, oh gods in Arda, that mouth just moves on, wet and hot and divine, as Thorin kisses and licks and nibbles his way from Bilbo's neck, over his collarbones, his chest – and Bilbo cannot help digging his fingers into that glorious shock of black hair, pulling at it and then pushing Thorin's mouth closer to himself, down to his skin, feeling his tongue slide and his teeth nip as he moves it lower and lower and lower still… Bilbo's hips seem to thrust upwards by their own accord until his crotch finally rubs over Thorin's face. He can feel Thorin's breath even through the layers of fabric, hot and moist, resonating in his throbbing flesh, and Bilbo cannot help it, his hisses a curse and then untangles his fingers from Thorin's hair to bring his hand to his own mouth to clamp his teeth on his knuckles because – oh gods, oh gods – this is too much already, and they have just begun. Neither of them is even out of their damn trousers yet.

There is a breathless chuckling coming from the region of his groin, and Bilbo opens his eyes, squinting up at Thorin deliriously.

"Never thought anything could coax a profanity like that out of your mouth," Thorin grins down at him, his face flushed, his eyes ablaze, his teeth so white against his burning cheeks and reddened lips.

"Don't make me curse again, go on with it," Bilbo hears himself practically whimper, and there is another gleeful laugh in response.

_Thorin is laughing_ , he thinks, almost manically. _Thorin_. _Laughing. Gleefully_.

"Then off, off, off with this," Thorin mutters, fingers clawing at the buttons of his pants.

In a heartbeat, they are undone and pulled off Bilbo by impatient hands, leaving him utterly naked before Thorin, sprawled upon the hide and blankets on the bed like a dessert about to be devoured, gasping for breath, almost vibrating with tension and yearning so badly that his cock stands proud and erect.

The look Thorin gives him, moving from Bilbo's eyes to the said straining flesh, is positively reverend, and it undoes Bilbo a bit more because never in his life, not once, not with anyone, has he been looked at in this manner.

"Oh _Sanâzyung_ ," Thorin murmurs, his rough hands stroking the inner sides of Bilbo's thighs and his knees. Bilbo has no idea what it means, and even if he did, he wouldn't be able to collect his wits together enough to translate it now, but Thorin's voice is so full of utter awe and want and longing and tenderness that Bilbo wants to scream, clawing fruitlessly at the covers beneath him. "My perfect, beautiful, singular treasure," Thorin breathes again.

Then he leans in, pressing a path of kisses along Bilbo's inner thigh, hot and moist and scratchy, until his mouth envelops the very tip of his leaking flesh. Bilbo cries, with no thought of guards standing by the door, as he thrusts his hips upward. Thorin's mouth is gone, though, and then his tongue licks along the underside of his cock, sucking on his sack, and Bilbo has to press his hands to his face to muffle a wail. Then his hips are lifted off the bed slightly and momentarily, Bilbo has an idea to ask Thorin what he is even going to do, but then there is a dripping wet tongue lapping just _there_ , and Bilbo howls.

What happens next does so in a maze of desire-induced fog, pleasure so intense it seems to be bordering on unbearable, his yearning so compulsive Bilbo is left thrashing and moaning and begging for more, oh please, more of it, his heart pounding in his chest and ears and throat, his mouth dry, his eyes stinging with sweat that runs down from his forehead, his lips chafed from the scratchy touch of Thorin's beard and because he is biting them almost bloody, every single muscle in his body seemingly strung as a string, his hands clawing and banging on the mattress, all of that because there are Thorin's hands on him, _in_ him, stroking and stretching relentlessly, making him gulp and choke on his own moaning. Somewhere along the way, he knows Thorin is naked, too, lying on the bed beside him, his body hot, his skin damp and clinging to Bilbo's, his hair a tickling sensation on his arm and shoulder, his wet mouth on Bilbo's ear turning what remains of wits he had into total mush, his fingers in him doing that damnable stroking and drawing sounds out of his mouth he could have never thought he is capable of producing. It seems to cost him an extraordinary effort, but Bilbo does manage to grope around until his shaking hand ends up on what he is looking for, Thorin's thick flesh, hard as rock and smooth as silk and hot as burning coal, and so, so very much desired.

He wraps his fingers around it the best he can, smearing his own sweat and the moisture leaking from it along the shaft, and is delighted to hear Thorin's respective groan, a string of curses mixed with endearments whispered into his ear in a desperate trembling voice. Bilbo wonders what they look like now, wishing he could see the two of them – the sight must be utterly obscene, a completely debauched Hobbit with his legs spread and drawn up, all slick with sweat and spit and whatever it is in those jars Óin graciously supplied, with fingers up his bum, kissing the hell out of a no less debauched Dwarven King, dishevelled and majestically hairy in all the right places, his swollen flesh held tightly in his hand and absolutely undignified noises leaving his mouth. Oh, he would give his fourteenth share of the treasure just for the chance to behold the two of them right now.

"Bilbo, my…" Thorin gasps, dragging himself away from Bilbo's hand, his fingers slipping out of him and leaving in their stead a hollow emptiness where so much pressure and pleasure has just been concentrated. All Bilbo is capable of doing, though, is a plaintive half-chocked sob. "I can't… this… will you…?"

The question hangs in the stuffy, practically non-existent space between their faces, Thorin completely out of breath and sounding on the verge of some kind of breakdown, shaky, desperate and delirious.

"You insuff--" Bilbo tries and chokes on his own tumbling words. "—sufferable, glorious Dwarf. _Take me_. Now. Want you--"

He cannot articulate anything else because all circuits there are in his brain seem to be in total shutdown. Thorin sounds like a mixture of a growling bear and a wailing dog, which might have been funny in some other situation but now…

Somehow, Bilbo ends up astride Thorin's hips, his legs spread wide because of the sheer girth of him, Thorin himself half-sitting leaning against the pillows, guiding him down, his hands clamped on Bilbo's behind, down, down, until there is the heat and the slickness and oh sweet goodness, Bilbo doesn't seem to be able to draw in a single breath, stretched wide-open and held so tightly and whatever breath that was still left in him is kissed out of him by those marvellous lips. His muscles – gods, his _everything_ – seem to be vibrating with the sheer primordial want, his ass on fire and his erection throbbing, hot and cold and shivering and needing…

"More," he gasps, digging his fingers into that marvellous pelt on Thorin's chest and pulling, though whether to encourage Thorin or to steady himself he doesn't quite know. He doesn't know anything anymore, it seems, not even himself. All he knows is that he never wants this to be over. "Please, Thorin. _Please_."

Thankfully, Thorin obliges, doing the job for the both of them because all Bilbo is reduced to doing is clinging to him, his forehead pressed to Thorin's, their lips parted against each other's, their breaths mingling, his hands gripping at his Dwarf's hair on his head as well as that on his chest – very handy, really, all that hair – and pleading him to please, _please_ go on. Thorin does, somehow managing to both hold him and fuck him, the relentless thrusting of his hips drawing utterly pathetic mewling out of Bilbo, but he is past caring now. All he is aware he needs to do is grip Thorin harder, everywhere, which proves to be the right thing if his grunting curse in Khuzdul could be any indication.

"I love you," Bilbo hears him gasp, feeling the motion of his lips against his own rather than really hearing the words. It makes Bilbo's insides clench as if he was caught in a free fall from the top of the Lonely Mountain, the tensing of his muscles tearing another groan from Thorin which is echoed by his own faint moan. "I love you, my beautiful treasure, my brightest sunshine, my--"

"Thorin…" Bilbo hisses because he cannot bear any more of it, the combination of Thorin's lips on his, hands on his burning skin, his cock slick and swollen inside of him, the passion and the tenderness of the touch, and now this, all those words, resonating into one overwhelming symphony of sheer, uneclipsed bliss.

"My heart," Thorin breathes out, his voice breaking at the last syllable as his hands clench on Bilbo's behind so hard it makes him yelp, all those sensations, of being held and loved and stretched and taken and adored and treasured, finally amplifying each other until he cannot take it anymore, not a single second of it.

He cries against Thorin's shoulder as he comes, his eyes squeezed tightly and his mouth wide open, some detached part of himself surprised at his weeping, and yet he cannot do anything about those tears, either. Those aren't tears of grief or pain or sorrow, though, so he lets them flow freely, clinging to his magnificent Dwarf as if his life depended on it, and, come to think of it, it does.

They remain motionless for what feels like ages, while their breaths slowly calms down, and as minutes crawl by, Bilbo is becoming increasingly aware of the sheer wanton eroticism of it all, of Thorin's flesh still inside of him, now softening, of the slick warmth of it, of the sticky mess between their bodies, of the way their clammy skin is stuck to each other's, of the tickling press of Thorin's hair what feels like all over him, his face, his whole front, his thighs and crotch, of the way Thorin's chest and stomach heave as he breathes, of the air brushing past his ear, a warm caress softer than a kiss and twice as tender. This is so real, Bilbo muses in fascination, Thorin's body so solid against his own, and both of them are so vitally alive, here and now, breathing and feeling and loving and together. Bilbo draws in a long breath and then lets it out in a soft exhale, almost able to feel his loneliness and sorrow of before being slowly dissipated, substituted by a steady, warm glow of the sturdy presence against him.

"You are home, Bilbo," Thorin murmurs, and a few months ago Bilbo couldn't have imagined his voice could sound this soft.

It does now, though, and the words Thorin utters are true both ways – he is indeed home, because his home is wherever his Dwarven King is, and he is Thorin's home because Thorin is his.

"We are so exceptionally lucky," Bilbo whispers in response, drawing in Thorin's scent – sweat, musk, leather and metal and fire, a mixture which should perhaps be unpleasant for a greenery-loving Hobbit, but it is the smell of home, of real home, filled with warmth and love and company, and Bilbo cannot get enough of it.

"It must be your Hobbit luck, my love," Thorin sighs above his ear. "I wasn't quite so lucky before I met you. I hope it lingers for a while."

"Yes, so do I," Bilbo sighs with contentment, the quiet yet profound sort of it he hasn't felt in years, and when he last did, he was most certainly barely able to appreciate it. "Feels like those peaceful times you were on about might after all come. I still remember that thing you said about forests all the way down to Dale, by the way."

"You'll get your forests, my _little burglar_ ," Thorin promises him with a quiet laugh.

"Will have to plant them myself, most likely," Bilbo grins against the warmth of Thorin's chest. "Suppose you Dwarves don't know the first thing about planting anything except your axes in the heads of your foes."

"We're fast learners, however," Thorin points out and then lets out a short huff.

"What was that?"

"Not a year ago, if I had been told I would be contemplating planting trees and flowers, that I would actually want to appreciate trees and flowers and all that, I'd have taken their beard for such insolence."

"I have absolutely no doubt about that," Bilbo snorts quietly. "You looked like you wished to uproot every single pot plant I had in Bag End and take my beard, too, if only I had one, when I said I was no burglar."

Thorin sighs softly and tightens the hold of his arm around Bilbo's waist. "I was a fool," he says evenly. "And I liked Bag End, by the way."

"You _what_?" Bilbo actually lifts his head off its cosy place on Thorin's sturdy shoulder to give him an incredulous glance. "You're full of surprises today, Thorin Oakenshield, and I'm not sure if I should be glad or wary."

"I really did," Thorin smiles, looking almost sheepish. "Wouldn't have admitted to it if Azog threatened to take my head off, but I still did. I thought it had the comfort of a proper home, different as it was from what Dwarves are used to, but it is only now that I'm beginning to see that it was you who radiated that comfort through the whole place. I hope you'll manage to do that to this Mountain with your Hobbity magic."

"First luck, now magic, I'll be… well," Bilbo shakes his head, unable to hide his fond smile. "Thorin, I'm no fairy creature, just a Hobbit made of flesh and blood. I have arms and legs and all other necessary appendages, you must have noticed that, along with some wits and reason about me to make any home you throw at me cosy enough. I'll make your Mountain liveable, don't you worry."

"This is all yours to toy with, entirely in your clever little hands, myself included," Thorin smiles back at him, and it is a gentle, almost brittle thing.

Silently, Bilbo vows to himself he will do his damnedest best to keep it there on Thorin's face. It suits him unforgivably well, and then he surely deserves some time for smiling. Aloud, he says with a suggestive half-smile of his own, "I'll gladly start toying with the latter right about now."

"You insatiable little creature," Thorin laughs but there is nothing about the lively glint in his eyes which speaks of any displeasure with such matter of things.

"You've given me way too much power, don't think I'm not going to use it," Bilbo grins and leans in back into those wonderful arms and to those smiling lips.

At the back of his mind, he marvels at how easily and naturally they could be making love one moment, gently tease one another as they chat about, of all things, domesticity and trees at another, and then go back to making love once more.

And then he hardly thinks about anything at all. 


	26. Epilogue

**~ Bilbo ~**

The small spidery handwriting and the unsteady candlelight dancing on the parched, yellowish pages of the book on Dwarven history Bilbo has been reading for the past two hours or so make his eyes water, so he blinks owlishly trying to chase the sleep away for a while longer so that he could finish the chapter on trading relations Erebor used to have before the dragon had come. As he shifts his head over Thorin's shoulder, a sudden jolt of pain shoots through his neck and up into his head, making him muffle a surprised gasp, more from the unexpectedness of it rather than from the pain itself. He has been aching ever since he came to his senses now almost two months ago, but it has been abating with time and various concoctions that have been forced down his throat by Óin and his Elvish assistants. Fortunately, their medicine seems to be helping, along with more fresh air, proper food and a bit of exercise he has been allowed to do lately, so, annoying as the aches are, he is doubtlessly recovering and there must be nothing to worry about. He might have a sore back and neck for the rest of his life, but it seems to be a small price to pay after everything he has been through ever since he left the Shire.

Thorin doesn't appear to be as relaxed about it as Bilbo is, though. The Dwarf has been fussing over him like a nervous Nellie, which is simultaneously a bit tiresome and yet endearing, so Bilbo allows him to, still somewhat awed to see the mildness of Thorin's ways. He has known about the rather tender side of his personality for quite some time, of course, but it is one thing to know and an utterly different one to experience, so Bilbo doesn't really mind being the centre of his severe King's affectionate attentions.

"Bilbo?" Meanwhile, the severe King in question sounds slightly more than a little concerned, his fingers tracing a caress from Bilbo's night-shirt-clad shoulder down to his elbow.

"I'm fine," Bilbo murmurs, squeezing Thorin's stone-hard bicep in return and trying to make both his voice and the gesture reassuring enough.

"Does it still hurt much? I could go get more of that pain-relieving stuff from Óin."

"Thorin, it's really nothing," Bilbo sighs. "Just soreness, it'll pass all by itself after a while. One is expected to be a bit sore after colliding with a stone wall the way I was told I did, after all," he smiles, hoping to calm Thorin but immediately realises that mentioning the incident was a mistake as he feels Thorin's hand squeeze a bit more tightly on his arm. He also hears the Dwarf swallow hard and he could just imagine him clenching his teeth oh so very vividly. The topic of what happened to him during the Battle of the Five Armies, as it has been dubbed, seems to be as sore with Thorin as Bilbo's back has been.

"You should be resting more," Thorin says after a pause, voice hoarse and strained. "Not spend half the night reading that nonsense; those books can wait."

"Thorin, it's no nonsense. You pounced your Mountain on me, the least I am expected to do is get acquainted with its history and policies and whatnot not to embarrass myself – and you along the way, which would be even worse – the moment I open my mouth and put my foot in it."

"It still can wait, Bilbo," Thorin sighs, this time almost pleading. "You nearly lost your life for the sake of my Mountain and myself. That's been enough sacrifices on your part, no need in overstraining yourself now when what you should be doing is recovering."

"It's actually a good read," Bilbo relents placatingly as he shifts his head on Thorin's shoulder. "Quite informative and engaging, so it's really no trouble. I love reading, I want to know your people, so it's fine. There's not much left of the chapter, anyway, I'll do away with it soon enough."

"It's just…" Thorin falters mid-sentence, takes a deep breath, which makes his chest heave noticeably against Bilbo's back, and goes on, "I just want you to be well again, as soon as possible, without burdening you with more troubles than I already have."

"You worry too much, Thorin," Bilbo murmurs against the warm skin of his shoulder, and as his lips brush it while he speaks, he places a soft reassuring kiss on it. "Even when there's really no cause for it."

"You would, too, if you had to see what I saw," Thorin replies, his voice quiet and strangled in a way as if something was clenching his throat. "That moment when Azog flung you off as if you were no more than a kitten and you ended up smashing against that rock; I keep seeing it in my nightmares, time and time again, myself just lying there and unable to do anything, unable to stop him, unable to catch you, unable to save you. I thought he'd slash you open with that blade of his, and then I thought you'd never live after… all those angles in your body, they were unnatural."

When there is a shuddering, pained sigh reaching his ears, Bilbo rolls over to bury his face against Thorin's chest, the hair prickly against his lips. It moves raggedly as if Thorin is trying and failing to make his breath calm down.

"Thorin…" he squeezes his hand on the Dwarf's bare side wishing to soothe him somehow and devastated by the realisation that he doesn't really know how to. He, too, has the experience of witnessing the ones he loved die, witnessing Thorin himself nearly die, too, so he knows the horror which follows it, gripping like a vice and refusing to abate.

"And I just sat there helplessly, knowing I could never forgive myself if you died, and I was sure you would, after saving my wretched life again even though I didn't deserve it, not after what I had done to you."

"Thorin, please," Bilbo whispers, lifting himself up on an elbow and looking into Thorin's terrified eyes, shining unnaturally brightly in the dim candlelight. It is eerily akin to the way they shone back when he was possessed by dragon sickness, yet instead of madness there is only pain in them now, lots and lots of it.

"I nearly killed you with my own hands, do you understand that? Nearly threw you off the damn ramparts--"

"But you didn't," Bilbo interrupts him, softly. "That's what matters, you _didn't_."

"But I _wanted_ to, Bilbo," Thorin hisses bitterly. "I was so deeply caught in madness I really was going to kill the one I loved most in the world because of some shiny piece of rock. I knew that damned stone had driven Thrór mad, I knew I should have been wary, and yet I wasn't."

"It was understandable…" Bilbo tries to reason because, in some sense, it really was.

He did betray Thorin, after all, even if he did it with good intentions in mind. The other part of him remembers the sheer paralysing horror as he stared up into those feverishly glittering eyes full of wrath and contempt whilst dangling off the wall with only Thorin's hands clutching the lapels of his coat separating him from being flung down onto the sharp rocks beneath, thinking that Gandalf had been right like Gandalf always is, that this wasn't the Thorin Bilbo knew or had come to love, that this was a mad violent stranger and that he should have perhaps heeded the wizard's advice and stayed away, and the realisation hurt him so much, hurt him so deeply that he wasn't sure he would manage to live with it even if by some miracle he wasn't thrown off the battlements right then. Some part of him almost wanted to be thrown down there so that it would end his misery sooner. Remembering those dark, stormy, outraged, insane, cold eyes still gives Bilbo shivers. He thought he lost Thorin then, he doesn't want to lose him again to grief and self-blame, and this is what returns him back to the present moment as Thorin all but growls his dismayed, _'No, it's not!'_ in response to Bilbo's previous statement _._

"It's _not_ understandable and it's _not_ forgivable," he goes on, his voice strained and thick. "I did that to you and yet you came back to me all the same, all the way to the Ravenhill through the battle to warn us all, and then you virtually ran to your death to save me again, Bilbo…"

When Bilbo lifts his head to look up at Thorin, he sees those eyes looking back at him, his normal rich blue, not insane or violent, but instead filled with sorrow so bitter and profound that it is threatening to overflow and spill down Thorin's cheeks in tears Bilbo has never seen on his face before.

"Thorin…" he murmurs uncertainly.

He wriggles up, ending half-sprawled on top of his Dwarf, pushing his arms under his head and pressing their foreheads together in a gesture that he has come to adopt so quickly, one of affection, care and devotion. Immediately, there are arms, strong and firm, wrapping around his middle, holding onto him with desperate intensity.

"Shhh," he soothes. "It's all over now, my love."

"Did I scare you?"

"Thorin, please."

"Did I, Bilbo?" Thorin demands, sniffing wretchedly, and it tears a hopeless sigh out of Bilbo's mouth. Oh, Mahal, he had this coming sooner or later, didn't he? "I need to know it."

"Yes, you did," he admits with reluctance. Still, he supposes Thorin has the right to know. "When you dragged me around the Mountain like I was some pet of yours, and when you accused the Company of betraying you, and when you growled at everyone to leave you alone, and when you didn't eat or sleep for days, and when…--"

All of a sudden, Bilbo trails off, unwilling to mention the time when he was profoundly and utterly terrified of Thorin for real, not wishing to bring back either the memories or make Thorin aware of that, too.

"And when I cornered you back in the tunnels that time, wasn't it?" Thorin murmurs, his voice so broken Bilbo wants to scream. "I can remember all of it, Bilbo. I wish I couldn't, I wish that madness had somehow blurred my memory, but it didn't. I can remember everything I did wrong, every vile word I said, every accusation and threat and--"

"Thorin…"

"I…" he gulps, burying his face against Bilbo's shoulder. "I don't know how others even _allow_ me anywhere near you after all I have done to you. I'm so sorry…"

"Thorin, please," Bilbo positively begs him now, not knowing how to make the pain and regret leave Thorin's voice.

"Forgive me. I had no right to… Gods, Bilbo, I desired you as much as I desired all the cursed gold in this Mountain and—"

"Shhh, my love."

"I almost—"

"But you didn't, Thorin," Bilbo interrupts him. "That's what matters, you didn't."

"Aye, by some miracle—"

"Now don't you tell me about any bloody miracles," Bilbo hisses, scared and frustrated and angry because of that. "It wasn't any damn miracle, it was you who stopped yourself then and it was you who did manage to fight that madness afterwards, Thorin, do you hear me? You!"

To his genuine dismay, the Dwarf doesn't seem to.

"I was sure you were going to die out there still thinking I was that insane tyrant who had treated you so poorly, who threatened you; I thought I would never be able to beg your forgiveness, to tell you that I love you with all my heart and my soul, to thank you for saving me so many times, for saving my kin and my friends, from orcs and Elves and from myself. Bilbo, even in my madness, I still remembered you, some part of me remembered you, your voice was the one that spoke to me and led me out to light again, and there you were lying on that blood-soaked frozen ground in front of me, and I knew _I_ was the one, not Azog, who would have your blood on his hands should you die."

"I'm here…" Bilbo whispers as he feels hot breath on his face and moisture beneath his fingers, tears finally spilling from those blue eyes. He wipes them away with his palms and the back of his hands all in vain because more come, leaving Thorin sob wretchedly into his cheek. "I'm here now."

"I don't know how they did it, how they managed to save you, Gandalf and Thranduil, but both looked so grave when I finally was able to see you. I don't know what amount of their magic was necessary to heal all those injuries, but I believe that if it required a wizard and an Elvenking to keep you alive, _barely so_ , they said, it was a close call. And it was all my fault, I failed to protect you from myself and from all other dangers, and you were lying there, pale and motionless--"

"Shhh," Bilbo soothes, feeling the despair with which Thorin clings to him in the way his arms wrap him into an almost bone-crushing embrace, but Bilbo endures it the best he can, in the way Thorin's tears dampen his throat and chest, in the way Thorin's lips move against his skin, in the way how absolutely agonised his voice sounds.

He suddenly realises that even though they did talk about it a while ago, with Thorin begging his forgiveness and Bilbo willingly giving it, it wasn't over for him just then. Oh no, how could he have thought that someone like Thorin would let anything go that easily. He had clung to his hatred of the dragon and animosity towards Thranduil for more than a century, apparently blaming himself for every single plight that had befallen his people ever since the fall of Erebor, how could Bilbo possibly have thought he would let this go so easily, the fool.

He is glad for the tears, however – tears wash the pain out of one's soul as water washes poison from the wound, and in Thorin's case his wounds must have been festering for way too long. So Bilbo holds him close, allowing him to let it out as he would allow a Hobbit child to weep in his arms after they scraped their palms and knees bloody, knowing that sometimes all it takes is a shoulder to cry all the pain and bitterness into until they were spent.

"I'm here, I'm with you, Thorin," he whispers into the dishevelled shock of hair. "It's all over now, all in the past."

"Forgive me," Thorin rasps.

"I already have," Bilbo soothes. "I'm not afraid of you. I am here, I am alright. I love you." 

There is another wretched sob being muffled into Bilbo's chest as Thorin's hands find their way into Bilbo's hair, palm cradling his head as if he really was some fragile treasure, Thorin's tears hot and salty on Bilbo's lips.

"Don't leave me," the distressed King in his arms pleads, voice ragged and raw and so very much unlike the one belonging to the Thorin he knows. "Please, don't, Bilbo."

"I'm not leaving," he whispers against the flushed bearded cheek beneath his lips. "I'm right here, Thorin. I am with you. We'll see your Mountain restored and shining, and we'll live happily ever after, just like in those tales I'm so fond of."

He keeps on murmuring some soothing nonsense for a while, stroking Thorin's head and his back and pressing little kisses to his wet cheeks until the tears and erratic breaths seem to subside a little.

"You are my everything, _ghivashel_ ," Thorin whispers thickly and a little nasally. "My life and my heart and my soul, you have it all, all yours to keep and do with as you please."

"And I will keep them all safe, I promise you," Bilbo says softly. "We Hobbits know how to take the best care of such things, that I can assure you of. Now hush, you've got a kingdom to restore and rule, so I want you strong and happy and not dwelling on old mistakes and grievances. And I'll stand by you every step of the way if that's what you need."

"I hardly deserve you."

"Nonsense," Bilbo shushes him, shifting so that he could lie down on the bed properly. Thorin loosens his arms just enough for him to accomplish it and then all but curls around his body once more, face nuzzled against Bilbo's chest, his limbs heavy and unyielding. "You deserve all the good and happiness in the world."

The only response he gets for that is yet another shuddering inhale, long and deep as if Thorin was trying to breathe in all of Bilbo, and, somehow, it is such a gratifying place to find oneself in, to feel needed and depended on. It seems no one has needed Bilbo for an unforgivably long time, with the exception of a few wee Hobbit lasses and lads running to him for a story or a pie, for so long, in fact, that he has quite forgotten what the sense of belonging feels like. He once told the Dwarves they didn't belong anywhere, and oh, how wrong was he to assume that he did. It is only now that he does belong, with Thorin and with the rest of his Company, in a place where everyone has been telling him he could be of great use, too, and it is only now that he understands that he has been lacking it terribly over the past decades. And a Hobbit should never be lonesome, they are not that type of creatures, and what in Middle-Earth was Bilbo even thinking when he was so stubbornly resolute to enjoy his solitude no matter what. To even think that he nearly refused to go out of his front door with Thorin and his Company…

In his quiet contemplation, Bilbo utterly misses the moment when his hands start to first card through Thorin's long hair, brushing and smoothening the wild strands, and then to weave the tresses into a pattern he has looked at so many times over the past weeks, one he can imagine ever so vividly now even if not replicate it with the same neatness and precision. He comes to his senses only when half of the braid is done, long and slender, realising Thorin has grown very still in the hold of his arms, his hands having long relaxed against Bilbo's back.

He allows himself a moment of comprehension, a little more than a heartbeat filled with the sensation of silken hair against his fingers and the security of the arms wrapped around his middle and the ever so quiet breathing brushing against his collar bone and the steady, comfortable warmth of the sturdy body against his. Then he swallows and goes on, finishing the braid with full awareness of what he is doing. He has no clasp or bead handy to fasten it with, so he fumbles for one of his own, takes it off and clasps it at the end of the braid he has just made. The moment the soft click signifies it is securely locked, Thorin's hand reaches out to close around his own, with the tail of the braid still in it. It remains there for a while, squeezing around his fingers in an almost spasmodic hold, and then there is a hushed, choked intake of air.

"Are you…" Thorin stammers. "Do you re--"

"I am," Bilbo whispers against his brow, turning his hand so that it could lie flush against Thorin's palm and twines their fingers together, giving it a return squeeze. "I do."

Thorin clenches onto it as if it was his lifeline, and it goes straight to Bilbo's heart, this simple gesture which tells him more than any words could.

"You will--?"

"I will, Thorin." Bilbo moves a little clumsily because of their joint hands, but manages to lie so that he could bring his forehead to Thorin's, placing a few kisses onto his face along the way. "I love you," he murmurs, seeing the black eyelashes flutter. "I love you."

There is tightness in his own throat and a sting in his eyes, too, and Bilbo blinks the moisture away furiously, drawing the air in through his nose.

"I love you so stupidly, helplessly, ridiculously much, Thorin," he murmurs, shifting his weight on top of his Dwarf, coaxing him to roll onto his back and ending up lying flush against him in the tangle of blankets, furs and limbs, hands buried into the voluminous black hair up to his wrists and kissing that gorgeous, wonderful, noble King silly.


End file.
